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The reaper
The reaper reaps in random
ways
no signpost warns of last lived days
but ancient ears can hear the sound
of thundered hooves upon the ground
on blackened steed with fiery breath
the sickle scythes of pending death
with slackened reins the reaper rides
as changing gait our fate decides
and now the day on random ground
the sickle's path has laid us down
and on he rides for those to come
whose random lives soon now be done
till silence falls the fields around
and winter snows make white the ground
we rest awhile with random friends
and in the spring anew begins
as clover lines the babbling brooks
and flowers spring from tiny nooks
and deer and rabbit come to graze
the reaper reaps in random ways
and so again that day will be
with promise new of destiny
till thundered hooves of blackened steed
the reaper comes again.
by Michael
Bross
Read the story behind this poem
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