Grim Reaper

He reached for the scissors, tenderly lifting it to his breast,

As if he were carrying a small child.

The unforgiving morning light filled the room like a slow certainty,

Pushing past the flimsy curtains and gently making love to everything;

The floor, the tiles, the barren piano in its corner, the table with its sheets and,

The man, sitting there with his scissors- unspeaking.

He closed his eyes, more like blood welling in the brain, he thought.

That was what it felt like-

Blood, leaking into the back of his head.

He lurched to his feet, heavily, and drove the closed blade deep into the desk before him.

The wood splintered and shuddered.

Papers and pencils hurriedly slid off the surface, seeking refuge closer to the ground.

The air settled.

He waited for his breathing to slow- a patient man observing a train-

Heavy with cargo, churning and grinding to a halt on the tracks, allowing him to step on board.

He opened his eyes, tentatively, and looked down.

His palm was bleeding. Odd, he thought.

After all, he hadn't felt a thing.

The deep gash swelled with a dark red that spread along the thin lines of his palm.

He imagined droplets of dew dripping down the strands of spider's web.

Solemn and subdued, the Grim Reaper eyed him from the corner.