Time Ticks and also Tricks

Have you noticed? death is not in the habit of knocking on anybody's door before entering the last bastion of life. Death gets in whether the door is closed or ajar...

... and he gets what he wants! With scythe in one hand and an hour glass in the other, The Grim Reaper shows up in the nick of time, but sharp on time -- every TIME, and has yet to be tardy once, no chance.

He asks for no permission to gain access to anyone's home no mater how sequestered, gated, or fortified his target's abode. He knows when to arrive and does so with deadly deft. Cloaked in black grubs, he shows up at the doorstep of any address irregardless how distant that zip-code places his prey's place on the map of escapism.

Hitherto, no one has been able to duck his head low enough or jump his feet high enough to avoid the flight path of his scythe. He comes like a professional thief -- quietly, for he holds a perfect record in destroying lives of young and old alike. He gets paid gravely well for his services with ossified coins of skulls and bones. The noise we sometimes hear is the ones we make. He never speaks and never fails; he forevermore gets his guests by the scruff of their necks in one fell swoop.

At times The Pale Rider is a little cynical, but almost always ethical and merciful with his scythe's swipe; for he wants neither to scare off his victims on a wild-goose chase, causing them to run away from the inevitable nor does he want to be the cause of their premature death, as if we don't see that coming anyway.

Death! The great proprietor of all. The last heir of every individual's closing-breath is within call.

The knowledge he possesses  is singular, precise, and most sharp  -- half science and half art. His mission in life, I mean death, is to make a TIMELY cut, just as when the last grain of sand is in suspension before its fall within the narrow vitreous neck of two states; between two diametrically opposite worlds of is and was -- thus, there and then, the cutter cuts the umbilical cord of time, for good -- lights out.

Welcome to a new condition of primordial IS-ness abyss; innocent state of forgetfulness; playfully pure with provisional freedom, primed to reignite again the flames in the loins of a pair of Lethean players, to help life rear its head once more from another womb man. Say hello in crying, now as you've done so many times before, to your new Mom and Dad, in the likeness of good ole Adam and Eve.

No one knows, though, where the next "when", and when the next "where" would take place. So, to the not-so-dead-yet, I say: Pay attention to what goes on between the boundaries of your life's innumerable alphas and omegas; the staged platform upon which you forgot to perform your part well-enough to retire during the last go-around. Remember? No? Welcome, then, to Fantasy Land of Life and Death, all over again.

Every then and Again

Out in the hind end
Of nowhere I stand.
My heart beating da-DUM, da-DUM ...,
           In iambic metrical-feet of doom.

I quickly recalled,
The stories I once told,
Of sorrow and pain. 
           Though a bit bloody and quite inhumane.

Ararat witnessed,
A turkic serpent,
Creep from steppes due east,
           Gorging itself on victims in hellish love feast.

In Dante's inferno,
Seventeenth canto,
The Bard equates a reptile
           To tartars and turks in the seventh circle of hell.

In nineteen fifteen,
This genocide machine,
Was mowing down a race.
           Splattering innocent blood in God's face.

Churches were destroyed,
With mohammedan joy,
And thumbing their nose
            At Christ our Savior, without any remorse.

Same turkish monster,
Century later,
With a forked tongue it speaks.
           Deny that they killed Armenians or Greeks.

turks tell us often,
"No genocide happened;
No Armenians were slain,
           But we'll do that which we didn't do again."