When Death Came

One sunny Sunday
Death came to my smithy
In his shroud of black
Trailing a shadow, like blood
Spilt on the butcher’s floor

Your time has come.

Said Death

What say you?

I am not ready, Ancient One.

So say they all.

I did not seek you.

Aye, there is that.

But few whom I’ve called home do.

I do not fear you.

That is rare.

Yet, still, you resist.

Because I am not finished.

A common rebuke
of narcissists and the arrogant.

What incomplete accomplishment
does  your legacy demand?

Sir, it is neither hubris nor self-love.

I have done enough
for the world, and myself,
to rest with conscience clear.

Could it be love for another?

Neither that. You visited
my one true love long ago.

Your children, perhaps?

We raised them, well enough,
to be independent.

Through no great teaching of mine,
they are, each of them,
better people than I.

What, then, must you finish!

A breeze ruffled Death’s cloak
And an open book’s pages
Which, I think, Death knew well
As I reached into water

 No!

Where I soon found the hilt
Still searing to touch
But cool enough, then
To grasp for a thrust

Now, I am ready

Death was indeed ancient
And slow with his scythe
Even my old hand was quicker
And my steel undenied

I watched the death drain
From Death’s eyeless sockets
His bones rattled apart
His cloak fluttered and fell
To the floor by the scythe
And upon them, the  book

The pages still open
Revealing the spell
To cast on a weapon
And these words to be chanted
While working the steel

To cheat Death
Become Death

To cheat Death
Become Death

To cheat Death
Become Death

Now I wear the shroud
And carry the scythe
The shadow of blood
Follows behind

The sword, I have melted
With a book tindered fire