29 November 2012
This poem was partially inspired by a book I read about 5 years ago called "The Book Thief". Written by Marcus Zusak, Death is a narrator.
When I was young, I was a sickly child My end seemed always nigh. The doctor said "I can't be mild, I fear you'll shortly die".
I knew my fate, the end I feared And though I tried to flee It wasn't long till the Reaper appeared And said "I've come for thee".
I begged and groveled, had no shame But those marked must pay their dues Out of hope, I pleaded "A game, I live if I make you lose".
Death paused, and thought, and said "Agreed, But dwell ye now on this. If, by chance, ye do succeed Ye shalt never know Death's Kiss".
I then thought of what to play For the choice of game was mine I sat and thought, then chose to say "I pick a game called 'Time'.
To play this game, you needn't be quick Or bigger, faster, or stronger The one who wins, a simple trick, Is the one who can wait longer".
Death looked at me and said "It's done! And now you've sealed your doom!" Death stepped back while my world spun Then she vanished from the room.
This happened countless ages past Yet I have still not died My body was not meant to last Though, thanks to me, it's tried.
The flesh has fallen from my bones And my bones have turned to rot My body, the vessel that was my home Has died, but I have not.
The game I played so long ago Has still not reached it's end Though once I viewed Death as a foe I now see her as a friend.
To Play A Game With Death • Opuss № I