I made the time to stop for Death,
So punctual is he,
His carriage came in from the west,
The sunset at his feet.
I couldn't smell the trail dust wafts,
I couldn't feel the heat,
I couldn't reach for Death's pale hand,
He shook his head at me.
He asked me for directions, then,
To a town called Amity,
I raised my finger t'ward the east,
And ransomed him a fee.
I stood there in the highway din,
His impromptu appointee,
I told him in a voice dark grave,
To spare them and reap me.
He took me for a hero there,
A mile from Amity,
He shook his head again and said,
You may not come with me.
Your time is not yet up, old sport,
Your life must yet proceed,
I thank you, kin, for stopping and
Making time for me.
And that was how I stopped for Death,
An April evening free,
He rode right in and stopped to check,
The way to Amity.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection
PoetryA simple collection of my poetry, some gathered from old notebooks and some bespoke writings for this collection. There is something of a narrative, loosely speaking, that could be constructed here, with recurring mentions of places and unnamed cha...
