To death, she is tethered. She
cannot flee.
Forbearance her hallmark, to
sustain dignity.
Stare returned blankly, killer’s
face brightly aglow.
Halted at the gates, tears allowed
rarely to flow.
Listen carefully: dark wool robes
rustling are heard!
Scythe scoring wind under wings of
vitality’s bird.
A thousand words these encrypted
pictures do tell,
Of a life halted, end is nigh is
what they now spell.
Fate. A family informed—another’s
duty carried out.
Prayers. Questions. Could
diagnosis be in doubt?
Alas, none found, the death knell
rung in finality.
Reaper grinning, awash in sadistic
grim glee.
In sparse false starts, redemption
found. Rare reprieve.
Hope on coasting doves delivered,
no one must grieve.
Snapped to attention, a life in
the balance hangs.
Omega the code paged, Pale Death’s
bell clangs.
Then, like Merlin into action she
springs, she flies.
A life to be saved, with steady
wand to embolize.
Twisted, long, flowing the line
awaiting the magician,
Toiling furiously refusing to be
death’s diagnostician.
A perilous balance, so fine the
scales are easily tipped.
‘Not today!’ she swears. Swiftly,
the bleeder is clipped.
Conjury rewarded, delicious relief
savoured quickly,
End’s abeyance unrestrained for
the dying and sickly.
To their eternal resting place,
down River Styx they float.
Stays of execution few in number,
death returns to gloat.
Trusted companions: radiation,
lead, technological scans.
Together a new day faced fending
off death’s plans.
Lonely is the existence, her
burden heavy, exacting.
The circadian Hermes role-play
exhausting and taxing.
Each life lost not forgotten,
compounded, for all she will mourn.
Yet, with each greeting sun
salutation her optimism reborn.
© 2015. Naomi Elana Zener. All
Rights Reserved.
