Death reaches out a pale bony hand
From underneath his ebony night cloak,
Sweeping back his hood in this strange land,
Face of nightmares and dreams provoked.
He points at a the sturdy ivy-strewn ridge,
Wipes your brow with a gentle finger,
And leads you across the floating bridge,
The grey mist tells you not to linger.
Death does not speak,
He does not make a sound.
He guides you across the bridge,
And beckons you to come down.
One step onto the mossy green,
And the world suddenly spins.
Death pulls you into a stifling hug,
As you scream for your lost life within.
You can see the world on the other side,
The world still shining in the sun.
You think of all your loves and prides,
And you regret the things you have not done.
Death has no love for the poor or the rich,
He sees no difference between old and young.
He does not care if you have walked many miles or have a perfect pitch,
He leads you away, song done or unsung.
Death waits for no one,
And grabs when your time as come.
He is greedier than anyone,
And feels no remorse once the job is done.