The Old-Timer And Reaper

The Old Timer And Reaper long poem

Photo by FailedImitator

T’was late at night when a knock came at the door:
Not much could be heard, but the sound of a snore.
When the old man suddenly awoke to his feet
Angrily screaming and cursing, like never before.

“This better be short and this better be good,
Or you better run as fast as I once could.”
But when the old man got to the door
Not a single person, big or small, there stood.

Frustrated and tired he returned to his bed
But not before stubbing his toe throbbing red.
Poor and tired old timer,
All he really wishes is to finally rest his head.

His eyes grew so shut that he couldn’t even weep,
So again he laid in his bed and quickly fell asleep.
Poor old bugger was so tired
That this time he couldn’t even count to two sheep.

An hour had passed, it was midnight to be exact,
When his front door sounded as if being attacked.
The old man got up in a hurry,
Once again angrily screaming and quick to react.

“How is it, at my age, someone still finds this fair?”
He said pulling whatever was left of his grey hair.
But when he opened the door,
For a second time, there was not a person there.

Sleepy and now limping with a throbbing sore toe,
He slowly walked to his bed like a dying old crow.
The old man returned to his sleep
Though his energy and patience were growing low.

You could hear the sound of a needle as it dropped,
Until a third knock, much louder his ears it popped.
In fact, so much louder
That it felt like the old-timer’s heart had stopped.

The loud knock made him jump up in agitation
As he left his bed with much frantic frustration.
But this time he screamed nothing,
As if behind the door lied some creepy revelation.

As the old man opened the door he jumped at his feet
For it was finally whom he had first meant to greet.
“Alas, it is you old friend” he said,
“Must you always play with your food before you eat?”

In a loss for words, while staring at his keeper,
The old man’s rant could not have gone deeper.
For at the door stood his fate:
The dark shadowy figure of the Grim Reaper.

He looked down at his bed where his body was drawn,
Peaceful, with a bruised toe but not sore from hereon.
It was then he realized nothing mattered,
Not any longer—for the pain was finally gone.

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10 Comments on "The Old-Timer And Reaper"

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Balveen Cheema

Finally it is the reaper that gives the body its final rest, and it frees the soul from its cage. The reference to the grim reaper was interestingly presented.

Nikita Mehendiratta

This is a good piece.


An excellent poem.

ammu sachariah

Nice poem. I enjoyed it.

Ramapriya Nr

@Poets imagination at its zenith. You have written the poem as if you have encountered the inevitable end. Brilliant essay indeed


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