I once knew a man
with a natural gift for death.
He would sing in a choir of reapers
and dance with the demons at night.
Then when the day was over
he'd sleep in the house of angels.

How he, oh great wielder of life,
knew how to change the time on a clock.
He'd turn the minute, then the hour
but never let a second pass

He was not of death
but he was not of life
or at least no life I knew.
He came to me one night and said,
in nothing more than a whisper,
the secrets we all long to uncover.
I cannot speak them,
I cannot say.
My mouth is sealed from now
till the last of my days.
My mind is closed, and my eyes are open.
I know of death, and death knows of me.
I call him friend
I call him brother

He wanted to take me once,
into a life after life
and I stood my ground
with my head held high
and denied him.
He unsheathed his sword and stared me down
the tip sparkled in the sun.
"Fight me then, and we shall see
who will walk with the souls
and who will walk with the living."
Again, I said no.
I would not fight this man.

"Strike me!" He screamed, veins popping from his neck.
He was pale and thin, almost fragile.
these things I had never noted before.
"I will not." I spoke, calmly.
"Then I shall fight myself!" He sang, and drew his sword to his neck.
The man cut off his own head.
I let out a breath I was holding,
and looked down gravely at the man.
"You walked the Earth like a God,
but you were more mortal than I."
and I spit upon the dirt of arrogance without a second thought.