The Reaper’s cloak swooshes across the road.
A feeling of doom sweeps over my bones,
I hear the sound of sharpening up in my throat,
Not the lawn mower blades or scissors denote
the sound of silent killer sliding soft
across the dirt road and its jagged rocks.
The swoosh, whoosh, swoosh that once brought life,
the very tool that raised me up from germ-
inated seed to golden wheat arching in the breeze,
now casts autumn’s shadow before my feet
as silent wind swooshing off of the pond
and torment sliced off the heavy cost of love—lost.
The Poetry Of J.P. 