A Visit from the Grim Reaper (a poem)

The Grim Reaper visits me in the heat
of noontime, black cloak passing
sun’s rays into my eyes, blinds me.

I cannot see (why) the Reaper is here,
picking this time in bitter sunshine to
hoarsely whisper sweet nothings.

A bone-white face, cruel, he opens
his jagged mouth and screams, the sound
smashes windows, makes babies cry.

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