dry reeds; testament of age. 
It's funny how nature can warp us back into reality. As I was pulling these dried dead weeds from the earth I couldn't help to think that I felt like the Angel of Death, pulling souls without mercy or regret. I didn't regret pulling those horrendously long weeds that plague my grandmother's land.
Is this what happens when my time is up? Is this how the Angel of Death pulls my soul from my mortal body? A sudden force that left me no time at all to say my goodbyes?
And the sudden pang of my hand as I pulled my hand back abruptly, the weeds have cut my hands. My hand now bleeds and the red liquid dribbles like a little foutain.
The weeds faded by time, just as we will be faded by time. Our colours will be lost and left behind will be our dull colours.
Is this what happens when my time is up? Is this how the Angel of Death pulls my soul from my mortal body? A sudden force that left me no time at all to say my goodbyes?
And the sudden pang of my hand as I pulled my hand back abruptly, the weeds have cut my hands. My hand now bleeds and the red liquid dribbles like a little foutain.
The weeds faded by time, just as we will be faded by time. Our colours will be lost and left behind will be our dull colours.
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