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