One warm bright eve in seventy-four,
In Old Westbury near New York’s shore,
A doctor named Julian Kirchick sat,
Beside his pool, relaxed and flat.
A surgeon by day, with a life so wide,
Four children, a wife always near his side.
But this rare calm—this quiet bliss,
Was a fleeting peace he didn’t want to miss.
He leaned right back, eyes closed in peace,
No patients calling, no duties, no cease.
When suddenly near, from the hedges tight,
He heard a rustle disturb the night.
At first, he thought, “Oh, just a bird,
Or maybe a squirrel, nothing absurd.”
But the sound persisted, a haunting song,
Too steady, too eerie, too strangely long.
He rose from his chair, his heartbeat grew,
The bushes shifted—a shadow moved too.
He took a step, then froze in dread,
For someone stood where the roses bled.
A figure cloaked in a robe of black,
Its face obscured, its shape grotesque.
Silent and still, it seemed to stare,
Like death itself was waiting there.
Then slowly it lifted a bony arm,
A gesture soft, yet filled with harm.
It beckoned him close, with a ghostly sway,
As if to whisper, “Your time’s today.”
Fear gripped his chest—his breath ran thin,
He swore he saw the Reaper’s grin.
He blinked once more—and in that blink,
The shadow vanished—gone in a wink.
For days he pondered, his mind undone,
What evil omen had just begun?
A man of science, of reason, of skill,
Yet haunted by something beyond his will.
He told no soul of that ghastly sight,
Afraid they’d call him mad outright.
But deep inside he felt it clear,
That death itself was drawing near.
Through sleepless months, his fear would stay,
A quiet dread that ate away.
Till autumn’s chill in seventy-four,
Brought sickness knocking at his door.
A fever came and would not fade,
So to his doctor, his case he laid.
The news was grim, his heart grew numb—
“An incurable cancer. The end has come.”
And in that moment, the truth aligned,
The Reaper’s call returned to mind.
The figure’s beckon, the shadowed stare,
Had been a warning—death was there.
He told his tale for the press to write,
Of that summer day and that ghostly sight.
Then not long after, with quiet breath,
Dr. Kirchick passed—to meet his death.
So if by chance one evening deep,
You see a shape where the shadows creep—
Don’t linger long, don’t take it light,
For death walks softly… in the night.