Like every other divine, supernatural idea,
I would like to think you come on a chariot of black horses,
But you behold a hallow of sadness,
A shower of dripping tears,
You carve your way, out of the fear people hold,
You drink on those helpless minds and restless souls,
You knock like the wind and enter like the whirlpool,
On every step you play peekaboo,
On every turn you grip tight and then let loose.
Even the hangman at the execution,
gets paid for his deed,
What do you earn out of your
deep seated cruelty?
How do you manage to look at your own reflection?
Into those dark hollow eyes,
Which instantly remind of the darkest starless night.
Once and for all I'll ask you this thing,
This lingering question the world frets about,
Why do you have to do this Mr. Death?