I gathered her up in my arms,
her wings no longer beat.
All night long, I watched her chest
so slow it rose and fell.
Come morning, she was still alive!
She'd make it, I could tell.
But when I took a bathroom break,
five minutes I was gone.
When I got back, the bird had died
with Grim there, looking on.
When I was ten, a tiny bird
lay injured in our street.
Then in my brother's sixteenth year,
my father cleared his throat,
"To Grim, I give my prized sickle!
He keeps my pride afloat."
He gave Grim that farming scythe,
the one with sharpest blade.
For ages it has been passed down,
its shine still does not fade.
My father's actions hurt me bad,
deep down grew dark envy.
My eyes saw only shades of green,
it's Grim they love, not me.
After four years, I took a trip
with my old roommate Paul.
While riding on a high ski lift
from up there he did fall.
"An accident!" the news exclaimed,
"From high up, he did drop!"
But no, I knew the real culprit.
To home I flew nonstop.
There he stood in our doorways
his face long and hollow,
"Barry listen to me," Grim said,
"A list I must follow.
I don't decide who comes and goes!
This you must surely know.
Your friend is in a better place,
it was his time to go."
" 'It was his time to go!' "I screamed,
"Grim, are you kidding me?
He was barely nineteen! A child!
This was your puppetry.
That's what we are to you, right Grim?
Just dolls in your death play?
While you sever the strings of life,
you snicker as you slay."
With that I left my home for good
all things I had to pack.
I wanted to be done with Grim,
so I did not look back.