Sunday, 15 November 2015
Diagnostician of Death and Full-Time Magician
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.