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Reaper
December 29, 2019
You come late
Or perhaps early,
I can’t tell.
You enter through the front door,
Closing it behind you softly.
No one in the house is stirred.
You follow the trail
Of loose papers to my room,
And entered it too, softly.
I must have rustled in my rest,
Disturbed by the winter wind
Or some other phantom.
I sleep well,
Knowing you found me.
© Alice B., Sarasota, FL
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A bit grim, but know it still contains hope.