Reaper Robes

I met her, right outside the nine-year gates
with raggedy scraggle hair ropes
and misled eyes. I ran foolishly, the way a child would, straight
into her pother

black robes. She wrapped her presence around me.
Her absent face smiled down, impishly, at me
somehow.
In shadow?
Or
in old memories, perhaps?
I knew her!

Her face captured mine, she sucked
naivety, pore after pore bled dry!
She held on to my, now, advanced young spirit and
led me
to his casket; to his
statue.

Before his lifeless image
ink-smeared my tender life, his
hollowness entombed it!

After that day,
The Reaper and I parted ways,
still her black robes never left.

I ate them at an empty table,
they walked me down a long, long aisle, silk tied,
for a replacement man.
They draped dark weight across my house plants,
my pastries,
my daffodils,
my sex,
my love.

Until one day, The Reaper appeared,
with a hand outstretched
to me. Her calculating movements told me
who! Not when, but who!
I ran foolishly, the way a scared betrothed would,

leaving my plants,
leaving my home,
leaving my LOVE,

away,
away,
away,

to the borders of life, I ran,
back turned on The Repear’s
robes, though they never
turned on me.

The robes….
those consistent black robes,
always carried consistent weight,
never dulling, fraying, or fleeing

just steady, unwavering

take
take,
taking.