Death Draft

A Poem by Hachamecha

You feel your knees shake
He looks at you
"Give me your hand"
he says
"For your sake"
So you take
The bony hand

His scythe is silver
deadly
with a piece of liver
stuck on the point

Frost enters your joint
The one in your finger
grasping his hand

He takes you to a place
with other people like you
"We make a merry band,"
he says
"This is our base."

The others have sunken eyes
faces that abandoned hope
but you were sure
that you will cope

He sighs
he cleans his scythe
touching it
like precious metal

Something whistles
you jolt
and wake up
but it was just a kettle
you left on the stove

A dream
you think
it has to be a dream
you want to believe
but no

Next day
he comes
and takes you
to exercise
or so he says

During the time
your eyes sunk a little
hope became just a fraud

Many people
fell into Death's hand that day
But he doesn't say
anything but a
"good job"

You have a putrid taste
in your mouth
You try to brush it with tooth paste
But it won't wash out

you ask him
if you can stop
but he looks at you
and utters
a cruel laugh
mixed with passion
"of course not!"

Your future is spoken
read
never changing
But that is the payment
of the token
that saved your life
from a lunatics knife

But this is no difference
you think
you should have passed
by the knife
Even if you regret
what happens
happend

Your eyes sunk a little
to almost an impossible point
your face set
it is time to 'exercise'

But ask yourself
who's the lunatic now?