Death likes its coffee the way it likes me: cold.bitter.
As if there weren't enough bitterness in life.
Every minute counts and every step cuts deeper,
In the end the nightfall is as sharp as a knife.

And the days are falling sleepy,slow,
And the leaves are bleeding gray,
Everything that's now, will be long ago,
Everything that blooms will be blown away.

The tables will be occupied by worms.
And the candle fades with the morning light,
And form once white dress a stench so vile returns,
It's the smell of blood for maggot's delight.

Greasy curtains roast in sunlight,
As the day is swallowed by late summer's heat,
It's the only thing remaining to roam in the twilight,
To wallow in the victory of its own defeat.

But my room's as cold as ever.
Eternally shrouded in the coat of dark,
Which eye will soothe forever and ever,
but the foot dare not set, dare not leave a mark.

And so the bones are gathered by the wall ,
Around table surrounded by the pale,
As I await my last and final call,
When the reaper's taxi will be taking me away.

I won't wait much longer, and I'll calmly go,
Let me write a poem and smoke the cigar,
Maybe nail a note to the dusty door,
And sit by the window in the Reaper's car.

I will leave my sadness and sarcasm behind,
and the days I spent in fear and maybe in the end,
The cup of cold coffee that I had to grind,
And grab a glass of whiskey with lady Death instead.