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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Death · #2199340
Dealing with the Grim Reaper while waiting for an important appointment.
This is a major appointment, aorta’s condition…the bypass.
All of a sudden he walks in, Grim Reaper decked out in black raiment.
I am just waiting with puzzle, a crossword that gives me a challenge;
Death enters like he is looking, and cold are the breaths he is leaving.
Others in office are passive, as there is no sign that they know him.
I become chilled with these goosebumps; exceedingly iced is my outlook.
Grim gazes hard at the people, as though everyone is an option.
“Who are you?” I ask so boldly.  “And what is it that you are seeking?”
(I am the innocent player—resigning myself to play acting!)
Reaper remains without hearing, and keeps gazing long at those seated.

I put my puzzle down quickly, then move in the Reaper’s direction.
There is cool air as I near, and the smell of a slaughterhouse wafting.
(Fear has ahold of me strongly—I am enthralled so I cannot sit.)
Face of the Reaper is hidden, a shroud jutting forth hiding it all.
Through the air’s coolness I’m nearing, badgering, “Hey!” as patients attend.
I am no time for the Reaper; he stalks alone where quiet begins!
Patients are eyeing me strangely, like I am disposed of my senses.
I act so humble to anger, those faces with frowns to my prying.
Grim Reaper, meantime ushers on, and his staff stays a point of regard.
I’m in the state of uneasy, a fidget presented to public. 

Death keeps on dancing, bones clacking and tapping on various shoulders.
I once again perceive Death going strong and I do not regard any rude!
So in my haste I attack but am floored—like attacking a shadowy form.
Reaper, you certainly tax me this day, I assume that you simply don’t care.
Be that the attitude given, I think it deserves recognition.
I shall not swipe at you, there’s none to hit!  Better life affords the tangible,
that which is seen and is heard and is felt, flesh and blood being the day to day.
I cannot see you no more since I choose; it is more peaceful for me.
Apathy screens you from getting too near; my pledge, I simply don’t care.
Death is defying as always, but nevertheless he leaves, soulless.

30 Lines
(Dactylic Pentameter Plus)
Writer’s Cramp
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