In days once old

on waters cold

young ship-bound lads, their lust repressed, 

brewed feverish dreams

of lovely things

upon the waves' unrest.

With honey-glazed scales

voluptuous tails

long knotted hair 'round eyes glass-green, 

these ocean fey

on sandbeds lay

to fill such fantasies. 

The sailors hence

desired nymphs,

forsaking maids on solid ground -

for 'tis easier

to love the sea,

and blame it when you drown.

My fam'ly tree, it stands on watered roots,

Long generations grown the limbs on high.

Untarnished by the plagues and fires of youth,

It holds me strong, and urges me to fly.

Should I escape my nest, I aim to leap;

I'll pin my wings, torpedo to the ground.

But I, a hatchling in my cradle keep -

They cannot fathom why I seek the sound.

I shan't proclaim; I have no wish to tell.

They shake their heads, despairing in the boughs,

Full-knowing that I wait, my soul to sell,

To trade this healthy bark for tombstone rough.

They think me selfish, not knowing what about:

Another bird I cannot live without.

Imagine life measured as sand in an hourglass.  Cliched, I know.  Unbearably so.  But imagine, if you could, an hourglass for each person: sifting away the time they have left.  If you could reach a hand in, scoop out the years of one human, and give to another... would you do it?

I can.

But it must be consented.  After all, I wouldn't be the hero if I could just take as I pleased.  And unlike that sweet-talking demon down in Georgia, I have nothing to bargain but goodwill.

That is why I frequent the young and suicidal.  They have the most to offer.  

Madame Noct-mortem, some call me.  Fair Lady Lifetaker. Seen when I want to be seen; heard when I want to be heard.  As the legends promise, I come in the night.  I hold your hand as a lover would, and see you gently to the other side as you bid away the years you don't want anymore.

In the morning, some lucky soul will awaken.  Perhaps freed from a coma, or cancer; now full of fresh decades, and finding a feather on their bedside dresser.

And yet...

I've found that, as the last few years slip into my care, each and every donor tends to have a change of heart.

"Wait!" they cry, realizing their will to live is not quite entirely gone.

And I could give it back, if I wanted.  I could return the sand, and let them cherish it anew.

But I don't. 

She was always praised for 

the wrong things.

Beautiful.  Smart.  Skilled.

Could solve an equation.  Could sketch a fruit bowl.

Good grades.  Proper grammar.  Charming personality.

But those cold hands wrought creation

of things entirely her.

Perhaps now

that she is gone,

you will spare those treasures

a second glance.