Death came knocking at my door,
I opened it--hinges so very heavy;
I argued, "It is not fair that I meet
you--for I had much else left to do."

Then death smiled,
He raised his scythe,
The door swung wide,
He bid me step out, saying,
"Show me the door
upon which you'd have me to knock?"
I failed to answer at the tick of the clock.

I could not point at any man
to play God, judge, or "thief."
--I have no right to point the door,
Take me if you will,
But trouble me no more!

Death, he gave a weary sigh,
A light shone all around,
And everywhere that death was,
Only vibrant life was found.

(c) 2003 SparrowCrowne Press
and Author, January Keck aka
Angelgolightly@aol.com

 
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