A poem about time, friendship, and the one chase we never win.
A young man walked on midnight’s breath,
And struck a deal with Lady Death.
She wore a veil of raven thread,
And smiled, “Not yet. But soon,” she said.
He craved the years, the wine, the flame,
To taste the world, to carve his name.
“I’ll give you time,” said she with grace,
“But someday, love, I’ll take my place.”
He danced through wars and fell through love,
Outran the stars and gods above.
Each time he tripped or neared his end,
She’d whisper soft: “Not yet, my friend.”
She toyed with him, a ghostly muse,
With hollow steps in worn-out shoes.
She’d touch his shoulder, draw in close—
Then vanish like a fleeting ghost.
She aged him slow with every chase,
Etched crow’s feet deep upon his face.
In every mirror, shadows stirred,
Her silence louder than a word.
He laughed at first, defied her game,
But years grew cold and none remained.
One twilight, tired beneath the stars,
He met her eyes, and dropped his guard.
“I’ve run,” he said, “and still you came.”
She knelt beside him, spoke his name.
“No shame in rest, in letting go—
You made the most of what you stole.”
And hand in hand, they crossed the hill,
Two friends, at last, both calm and still.
For Death, who waits and gently keeps,
Had come not cruel, but kind—to reap.
©️2025
The Royal Octopus 