The Soul Render

As I stormed across the battlefield
Dodging bullets in my path,
I saw a cloaked figure rise
And look at me with wrath.

I knew then that I looked at Death
For who else could it be?
But the soul render, the fatalist
And now, he came for me.

I backed away into a mine
That had not been there before
And I was sent way up high
No more I said, no more!

My wish was surely granted then,
For I had got to die
And as I fell and hit the ground,
I just let out a sigh.

Death's work was not as I had thought,
Not  collecting souls at all
But rather, as may seem quite odd,
Cooking and the sort.

The work was easy
The hours short
Peace abounded
Grief was naught

A pain awoke me
That wasn't right
The men around
Said it was night.

The Soul Render

Poem © Martin Woods