It is my soul he is here to claim
But perhaps I am not ready to go.
He stands there staring without eyes,
Waiting for my company.

My time has come, but I will not consent as I
Throw a punch and another. He cannot have me.
He is death, he sees it before it happens.
Contact, I do not make.

I cannot fight him, therefore I cannot win.
I am not ready to board his carriage.
I try to flee, to run as far as I can,
But I cannot move from my spot.

Without a word he hovers nearer,
His scythe swaying so peacefully from side to side,
He raises it up as he stands behind me
For it is now that this vestigial fight has come to an end.