Poetry, The Old Friend.

Drifting through the night, silent as a leaf,
no noises made, no noise or creak,
no steps support it, no door hinders,
as it passes, the flames turn to embers.

But all feel the motion, it freezes their blood,
a river of cold flows down in a flood.
They hold themselves tighter, grasp what they dear,
cling to the living, hiding from fear.


It drifts ever upward, robes with no hem,
The hood hides the eyes, which spark like gems.
In its hand a thresher, driven by arms,
Meant to help collect, never to harm.

It reaches the door, passes on through,
its purpose was here, it felt, it knew.
It reached the bedroom, it went to her side,
It sat down next to the one it would guide.

She sat there a shell, flesh wrinkled away,
bones couldn't hold her, pain couldn't sway.
But she fought on, with all she had left,
She would give up, she had her breath.

It asked a question, it needed to enlight,
"Dear lady in pain, why do you fight?
There is nothing here now, no comfort no joy,
All is misery, all things must go..."

"All your friends are gone, you had a good life,
as daughter, as sister, as grandmother and wife.
Let it go, release the pain, and I promise you this,
I will help you along, to cross into bliss."

The old woman was torn, it begged to ask,
"Will I finally see them, those from my past?
Will I be alone on this journey? Will someone be there?
What about those I leave behind, the ones who care?"

It understood her pain, she was afraid to leave,
"You have earned the rest, my lady, a reprieve
Your time has come, its time to let go.
Give me your hand, this way I can show."

The woman raised her hand, full of fear,
She knew who it was that stood so near.
But gentle as a leaf, it took her hand,
with no effort at all, she managed to stand.

They drifted up and into the night,
one more delivered to the guiding light.
She left in peace, no harm to her soul,
and it drifted back down unto a new goal.