When death comes



I walk with death,
Each day, each night.
I hear his breath,
which seeks to blight.

Where he goes,
There’s no respite.
Fear he shows,
to mar my sight.

With scythe in hand,
He points at me.
Where I stand,
I hate to be.

Where I go,
I can’t be late.
When I show,
He’ll open the gate.


J M Lysun

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