Racing the reaper, his speed so slow he'll never catch me, I'm like lightning, as if he'd ever over take me.
Time moves on, and our race goes on, his speed the same as always, yet I seem a tad slower, still I out pace death, it's truly effortless.
It's as if I'm running out of steam, is this a dream? A threat so far off, now riding my heels, so this is how death feels, cold, alone, an accursed fate, so to death I yet refuse prostrate.
With the last of my strength gone, I fear I'll be moving on, in a race with death is no rest, no finish line to cross, only points in the road to pass as you move along, once again, it appears it's death for the win, this is the end.