The Visit Poem by W.I. Stoneberger

Death in the doorway
picking at the lock
while the man in the room
watches the clock.

The hands on the clock
spin round around
breath makes the man's chest
rise up and fall down
and Death in the doorway
not making a sound.

The night is like a net
that catches all his dreams
and flings them back at him
like ashes at his feet.

He might go to heaven
he might go elsewhere
if he ain't forgiven
it don't matter where.

Death in the dining room
devouring the cold dinner
the man's life on a platter
'god bless the sinner '
and let the devil take what's left
all the gristle the fat and the bones
just make him leave
the soul alone.

The hands on the clock
begin to slow down
and Death in the doorway
not making a sound.