Your mortal soul
slips through your fingers,
slides in my direction,
in soundless lamentation.

Your mortal soul
is not worth a dime.
It is fitting that it falls
to me, a pauper.

Your mortal soul
fears for its life,
but needlessly from me,
for I am no reaper.

No, I am no reaper;
your end concerns me not.
Your now concerns me greatly;
not a reaper, but a gleaner.

I glean from the fields
in the wake of the reaper
she who came before me
and she who endures.

I waited in weak ignorance
until suddenly I knew
until suddenly blinded
by your bright mortal soul.

Your mortal soul is mine
to keep in my own
cannot be ignored
cannot be unremembered

Believe me, I have tried
but the knot grows ever tighter.
Your mortal soul scourges
the dust from my own.

Gleaning
gleaning
gleaning

Your mortal soul's thinning
I can see through it now.
Going away truly
it's going away.