The Reaper waits with silent breath,
No need for scythe or call of death.
He walks beside us every day,
A shadow in the morning gray.
His cloak is stitched with lost goodbyes,
With dreams that vanished ‘neath the skies.
He does not rush, he does not slow—
He simply reaps what time will grow.
The clock hands spin, the minutes flee,
Like autumn leaves from trembling tree.
We chase and race and strive and yearn,
Yet never know which page will turn.
A cradle now, a coffin soon,
Beneath the sun and waning moon.
We blink, we breathe, and time slips past—
A whisper, then it’s gone so fast.
But in the blaze of fleeting years,
Are moments lit with joy and tears.
A kiss, a laugh, a hand to hold—
More precious far than crowns or gold.
So live, before the reaper speaks,
Climb every hill, seek all the peaks.
Say what you mean, be kind, be true—
The time you have belongs to you.
For when he comes with final grace,
And bids farewell to time and place,
May all you’ve done and all you’ve been
Burn bright, like stars, beneath his grin.
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