Beside the door the reaper waits.
The seasons change, the winds still whip.
Some days slide by and others strip
themselves to shreds, then lie like slates
upon the floor. Our hearts are sore,
we seek the peace that culminates
in sleep that lies beyond our fingertips;
still by the door the reaper waits.
An Octain invented by Luke Prater – posted for Olivia’s d’Verse post on Octains
© Gay Reiser Cannon * 03-24-16 * All Rights Reserved