Solitary(Not Reaper)

The first time you walk into a crematorium, what strikes you is the smell. 

The asphyxiating fragrance of freshly-minted, all-engulfing grief, 

The visuals hit you a split second later

And you realise you're in earth's own version of hell

(or is it a purgatory you're in; who can, for certain, tell?) 

The ones still afflicted by personhood watch on, 

Incredulous that the flame of life had been so unbelievably brief. 

I've seen an aristocrat(well, a million or so, rather) go out in a blaze of sandalwood glory, 

The less-privileged stick to mango wood

-These shenanigans amuse me no end,

If earthlings had their way, the rich would probably shove the poor out of the lanes

Leading up to what they believe are the pearly gates of the heavens. 

Pallbearer that I have been since life began- ( you know, death inevitably follows),

I've seen all kinds of deaths- assassinations, wars, genocides,

I have a penchant for the macabre, my favorites continue to be the ones at the gallows. 

I'm the god you'll never build a shrine to, life's i

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nsidious twin, the antichrist. 

And I've seen ones with warm bodies, but with barely any life, 

Walking corpses, alcoholic stench on their breath, an impenetrable nebula of pain on their souls. 

Delusional as you are, all your scriptures have been astoundingly inaccurate about the way I dress

Believe me, if you will, my hood isn't black, and I carry no axe,

And I do not ride some ominous-looking carriage driven by maleficent spirits I harness.

I wear a cloak that changes colour with the sky,

Pristine blue, fluorescent pink, constellations glittering through the black until all their stars die. 

I carry only a scissor, no bigger than the one your grandmother would have in her knitting basket.

For what is Life, but an exceedingly lengthy stretch of yarn, 

Resembling some meandering river with all its twists and turns. 

It is only when Life tires of itself, that I come along, 

I cradle the yarn, caress it with my icy fingers and give the thread a snip, nice and strong. 

After all, if time were a tapestry, 

You're but a yarn.