A beaten path leads to the gate, many lives marked by their prints,

You turn to the sound of running water and see a stream that deftly sprints,

Through a hole in the tall, black fence, a secret, a hidden door,

Fish swim down the aquatic way, disappearing forevermore.

You turn to the rusted gate and push; it opens with a creak,

You look around your surroundings, to see a shadow, dark and sleek,

It is of a tree, tall and hulking, its trunk as broad as a bear,

The smell of autumnal leaves is overpowering, the scent capturing the air.

You go to the tree, and sit a while, basking in the shade,

It has taken a lot for you to get here, to see this blooming glade.

You notice something about the garden, and it’s on the tip of your tongue,

The area is split down the middle, separating the old and the young.

On one side, a paradise of pestilence; every plant without a flower,

The scent of the corpse plants fills your nose, the odour dank and sour.

The other side is a-blossom, full of colour and smell,

Rolling hills and blooming fields, and many a lush green dell.

The contrast is immeasurable; you begin to quietly surmise,

That one side is full of life and joy, the other death, and screams and cries.

The Reaper walks down the rift between the gardens, his empty eyes focused on you,

Dread begins to fill your body, and you stab him, yet your blade goes through.

The entity looks at you quizzically, as if he is surprised,

The feel of death hangs around him, the stench of rotting meat and flies;

He bends down towards you, and opens his mouth to speak,

“I was not expecting you today; but in New York, just next week.”

A childhood story comes to mind, of a merchant scared of discontinuation,

Who had fallen foul to Deaths lies, tricks, and manipulation.

Through your frantic mind pierces a thought of wisdom,

If you stay here, and do not leave, you’ve found a way to beat the system.

You cling to the tree, tightly, holding onto its ebony trunk,

You tell death your staying here, and his shoulders have begun to slump.

He stamps his foot and says, “Sod this, I’m off to the pub.”