The end of autumn brings dreary nights

but under snow, rain and tears, dreams maraud and I still hear
A constant ‘whirr’, it rings so soft, but echoes still, of essences lived and gone by

So clear’s the day, my uncle died, maybe because not much was left behind
Most time was spent with wine glass in hand, and to unknown beat he danced,

for his thumb would circle along that rim: creating a ringing ‘whirr,’ ‘whirr,’ and ‘whirr’
Those close would plainly shake their heads, pity so fake in their eyes,

and with a sigh, they’d proclaim, “Surely…poor uncle Marty’s gone mad.”
But tis’ the day, I now awake, to find the poor man only sad

From dawn to dusk, at the window he’d be,

those olden aged eyes too far gone for seeking a gaze
I’d stare, stare into his wine until the ‘whirr’ began to lie

by speaking words unknown by man
Out the window, still those eyes looked, but what happened
next is forever kept deep within my mind
“You always know when a reapers about, gone rogue and on its own.

you ever feel that flash of fear,
Or know a soul that keeled and sold?”
How mad, it sounded, as he droned. But I watched his thumb,

round and round, and in my ears the constant ‘whirr.’

So it was, what nonsense was said, sucked me in and would never release
Day after day, it began to happen, those souls

So bright a moment, extinguished the next
My father was miffed, my mother no better, for

Another and another, the town fell in dominoes to ash
And at the window, I’d listen still, to madness or sadness the wine glass sang
“Rogue reaper’s about, see the cold, it’s coming,

one must refuse, though unbearable desire, when a reaper calls for a sudden fall
They creep, you see, in shadows of doubt, but come for no one they shall not.”

In the end, it’s all still there, weaving such images

Of lore and mystique
He was found in the kitchen, sleeping by the window,

His silent glass empty, not even a drop
But I lay here still, while autumn is ending, and

Know that certain flash of fear
Ready, however, am I for the desire, for I will achieve

What poor uncle Marty could not and refuse the rogue reaper
I close my eyes and for a moment, so faint, but clear

I can hear a haunting and echoing ‘whirr,’ throughout the lonely night