Reaper in my dreams will be the death of me,
death of me.
Coming back at night to claim the rest of me,
rest of me.
Joke is on you, there is nothing left of me,
left of me.
No matter what I do you’re still possessing me,
can’t you see?
Older I get more I need to let you go,
don’t I know.
Colder you get all will turn to frost and snow,
so it goes.
Moments seem residually an endless show,
ebb and flow.
Won’t it ever end and won’t you let me go,
don’t you know?
Reaper as by name, the same, Librarian by fantasy,
you are who to blame, the same, for why the silence answers me.
Tell me in the simplest way why you are so intent it seems,
on finding me once I find peace to drag me to the past to bleed?