This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

3:07 in the morning,
The void of night after the witching hour,
When the world sleeps
And the underlings of the underworlds
Steal careless souls
And twist them crippled
Before returning them
To wreak their mischief bolder.

I draw useless nicotine
To the edge of
Another dimension,
Through my decayed, gaping maw.
No effect does this earthly tar
Have on my
Ancient,
Timeless
Somethingness and
Nothingness.

Yet,
This human habit calls me to some,
And in my role,
Grants those with little time
A little more
Time before their
Time.

...

She waits.

I wait.

Another draw,
Another second.

...

She lies there
In a strange bed
In a strange ward
With a forgotten love holding her hand.

Breath shallow gasp,
Exhales a rattle of bubbling phlegm,
Wet on dry,
Pneumonia the
Friend to
Alzheimer's victim.

She is lost in the void
Between life and I,
Not yet ready to greet me well.

...

Some of world's souls
Scream my name
In their dark,
Reduced to gibbering freaks are they
As I open my jaws to receive them
In neutral reckoning.

Some enter gladly.
Stately strolling between
These temple fangs
Where others cling to the bony pillars
As tempestuous winds and
Thunders of the Deep
Must pluck their clawing fingers free
As the world
In turn
Screams them away,
Ejecting life where it cannot be held
And is
Not wanted
Now.

Some lie there crying,
Empty and lost
In this cavern of
Nothing
Between the
Realms of oblivion.

This mouth of mine is a warm embrace,
Where ice burns so fierce that
It melts the flesh from their faces
And limbs from torso,
Left in a waxy pile
To be swept aside
Inside and
Through to
What awaits
Each one.

I draw again,
A folly so thin yet rich,
A break in a job
So cruel
Yet kind.

Mercy breaks in many forms,
I concur with myself
As I drag on my fag.

...

She waits.

I wait.

This time,
I am content to let her fight,
For she does not fight me,
Only
Time.

...

As I exhale the silly smoke of human folly,
A car's headlights brighten my unseen boundaries.
Slam,
And hurrying footsteps enter the door,
Scurry to the lift,
Gasp to the floor,
Race to the ward,
Beg the nurse,
Enter the room.

There she lies,
Between life and
Other.

Small, thin whisper of a distant voice,
Butterfly flutter of a kiss on translucent skin,
Twitch of warm hand on swelling limp hand,
Stroke of wispy, white, old hair.

Somewhere,
Inside,
As body shuts down,
Stagnant blood pooling as
Weak heart is slowing,
Receding lips drying
As sponge moistens sunk mouth,
A soul steeped in twilight
As spirit now rises,
She knows her last goodbye is said.

...

I sigh.

She knows,
And is content.

...

One last drag,
And I stub the butt,
Dropping it warm into the cage
With other
Last moments of a thousand lives.

I enter the door.
Slide to the lift
Where every upward clank and click
Counts down down unto the
End of
Time.

I float to the floor,
Glide to the ward,
Ignoring minions of nightmares
Who crowd the dreams of
Others,
I pass the nurse with a silent greeting
And enter the room.

Quietly,
Gently,
The soft murmur of those she loved
Coating the air in fragrant love she cannot smell,
I stand at the foot of her bed.

Her body is anchored
By frailty of age;
Her love is anchored
By hands holding hands;
These, she must leave behind.

Her soul is tired
And bound in confusion.
Her spirit lifts its head
And looks at me with
Tears of relief.

I nod
And open my cavernous mouth.

It is
Time.

Words float above her,
Soft chatter of memories shared,
All she cared for,
All they loved,
And she is weighed down with
Weakness.

Feathered arms stretch out
From my throat,
Reaching for this
Old, tired child.

Warmth and sunshine,
Cold and isolation,
Each soul is carried in arms of either
When they cannot greet me,
And no being knows which awaits them
But I.

All must pass
Beyond the veil
Through bone-dry void
And thunderous abyss,
Each to their own
Beyond.

Some walk alone,
But she is carried,
And she lifts a final heartbeat to thank me.

I close my jaws to give her
Peace
As she is carried into
Death.

She is
Gone.

A minute later,
Hands holding empty hands,
They realise her
Last breath was drawn and
Lost amidst love
And memories of living
Joy.

Grief and
Relief
Are the gifts of
Death.

And now,
Fag break over,
The second half of my
Nightly round is
Begun on
Time...

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

_______________________________________

Author's Note: In the U.K., "fag" is slang for cigarette. This poem is told by Death during a smoking break.