Deskjob

 

He misses his old beat,

they called it a promotion.

Take some weight off your feet,

learn to deputise,

the world has exploded in population size.

 

His old scythe hangs from the wall,

a call back to days long before,

when he could reap to his hearts delight,

taking souls in the middle of the night.

Now it's all paperwork,

pens leak and run dry,

ink like bloodstains covers the page

as his pen slowly dies.

 

Back in the old days he could really get around

but these old bones are starting to creak.

It's getting him down.

He's developed a limp, his joints are weak.

He is tired, his fight has expired,

his white horse has long since retired.

 

He used to bring flair,

that special je ne sais quoi.

Now it's all by the book.

People used to stop and look,

his scythe was kept in pristine condition,

always sharpened, always clean.

To have that special glint in the moon, if seen.

 

But It's more of a desk job now.

Pot plant in the corner withers and takes a bow.

Too many people to do this all alone, they said,

we need a team, to collect the souls of the dead.

So now he sits in his office,

collecting dust.

People try to call, as he is directing the freelancers

but the phone always dies as he answers.

 

"I'm getting too old for this shit"

He thinks.

"I wasn’t born to sit"

"I was born to swing my scythe with glee"

"This office life isn't for me"

Pressing buttons on his computer,

bony features given a tinge of green.

Every time he hits end,

it sends it to a blue screen.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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 Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle.