Grim

Mildewed tea in cupboards bare,

moths aflutter in gloomy light;
here the reaper turns to stare,
as crackled counters find their might.
In struggle have the autumns changed,
the leaves made slave to dusty moon.
The reaper feels unearthly strange,
and endings seem untimely soon.
The ghost of mischief holds his hand
for whispered words are left unsaid.
The reaper slowly leaves his plans,
his skull agape at unmade beds.
I linger close, in dresses green
and solitude of ancient types.
The reaper watches, scathe unseen,
as I fall nigh to choked delights.
Hello, my reaper, here we stand.
My bones youve chilled in midnights wake;
youve found your past in ashen hands
and so I live, for reapers sake.