Death Comes Poem by Michael Stevens

Who is it? Who beckons me whilst i sleep this night?
And calls my name with such force and weary despair to cause such fright
Who is it, who lurks there there, fearfully I plea
Whose unbearable force can i sense yet can not see
The air chilled more than normally so
such as no frigid wind could possibly bestow
And the breath drawn in felt ever sharp and pained
As if a blade had run me through and my energy was spent nay drained
Then unseen yet strong hands gripped at my throat
And at the time so, Death was unshadowed as if removing his coat
His pale aged face was wrought with suffering
Perhaps for knowing he'll ne'r hear them messengers sing
Along with the unending sadness showed
A tremendous anger, for what unjust rule said it just to work in his damned slumber faux
And now with Deaths hands already wringing the life from my still yet undead corpse
my weakened heart palpitating like nonsensical morse
I fear for what may behold my soul when it leaves this forsaken place
Hopefully when i come to rest, i truly rest and my soul not be displaced
This is the end of my tale, the end of my life
How easily defeated with Deaths hands alone, no gun nor a knife
I bow to thee from beyond the grave
saying boldly from afar to stand tall and brave
For Death comes to each of us and to all
from the lowly weak to the choicest might, all man shall someday fall.