As the years go by I ponder my death.
Will I go silently and unaware.
Or with fear grimaced on my face
as the scythe swings ever inching.

Will there be time to bide farewell
to kiss those cheeks and drink in the fare.
Or will it be said "At least it was quick"
and best not mentioned what was felt
in that last horrific scream.

What awaits me after death.
Will it be a bright white light that
beckons forward.
Or nothing but blackness, just sleep.

But death waits for me I fear,
welcome or not, it will bide its' time.
With crooked finger it will say,
come forth to me for you are mine.