Death Takes A Prisoner

Nearly every day, death takes a prisoner;
often times, it’s ten million, or so;
often it’s one who’s not a good listener;
or one who still needs to grow.

Perhaps I should have said it another way;
tho I doubt that death gave him a voice;
not asking if one wanted to go or to stay;
not offering to give us the choice.

It doesn’t seem that death has good timing;
he seems more often early, than late;
it’s useless complaining and whining;
death doesn’t allow any debate.

Death, eventually, comes for us all;
we seldom even see him coming;
it seems he can hear us when we fall;
even the sound sends him running.

Death comes lurking; within every storm;
oblivious to our desparate pleas;
taking your soul; while the body’s still warm;
but to God; death drops to his knees.

Death hovers over us while we sleep;
listening to us when we pray;
death cannot sow; what we did not reap;
so he promises to return another day.

Death seldom gives any warnings or alarms;
that he has something up his sleeve;
be sure to welcome him with open arms;
and turn out the lights, when you leave.

Monty 9/9/24. # 2,332