In the wee hours of the morning
As I sat with pen in hand
Writing of this thing called time
And what part in it plays man

There came a knock at my door
I wondered who could this be
No friend would come at this hour
Still I knew I must go see

As I reached the door I spoke loudly
“Why have you come so late”
A hollow voice answered back
“I am the Reaper, and with you I have a date”

A cold chill ran down my spine
I shook there where I stood
“I wish not to see you” said I
But it did little good

For right through the door came Death
Just as if it was not there
Now we stood face to face
I could feel his cold hard stare

“There must be some mistake” I said
“I still have much to do
I have not time for dying
I will not go with you”

“I have not come to take you”
The tall dark figure said to me
“I have come to ask a favor
I wish you to write of me you see”

“I have been misrepresented
By so many, for so long
Everyone sees me as such a bad thing
But they are very wrong”

“As a Poet you have spoken of me
In the past with words so kind
Whom better to write my story
Could I ever find”

“Let us sit, and I will tell you
Of how I came to be
Of how the Master picked me
To be the one to set all Mortals free”

He talked until the light of dawn
It was a story worth the tell
By the time he rose to leave
I found I knew Death oh so well

“When next we meet my Poet friend
I shall come to set you free
Until that time let others know
They need have no fear of me”

Like the mist of early morning
He faded into the air
In less than a heartbeat
He was no longer there

So now when others ask me
Why death is often in my poems
I tell them of the night
Death, and I spent all alone

I tell them the story
That I heard in Death’s own words
Of how Death was made the Shepherd of all souls
Of all of the Masters herds

His charge is not to take us
But to simply set our souls free
Where our souls end up after that
The Master alone decides you see

Death is but the end of our mortal life
And the start of life anew
What that life will be is the Master’s call
It is not up to Death, or you

Now that I understand him
I shall fear Death no more
Nor will I try to put him off
When next he comes to my door

The Poet W. L. Kite

Copyright of W. L. Kite