One night, they knocked upon my walls—
No one had dared before.
I waited, hoping they might tire,
But footsteps echoed more.

Still, hope flickered in that quiet place,
That someone might sit near,
To share a word or simply stay,
And chase away the fear.

Then, into view, they softly came—
A name I asked in vain.
They smiled at me and whispered low,
“Death is what I'm named.”

"Would you listen to my tale?" I asked,
My voice unsure, restrained.
Afraid they'd turn and walk away,
Yet still, with me, remained.

They grasped my hand, so ugly, cold,
A touch I’d never known.
I felt the weight of final breaths,
Profound, yet not alone.

I read my stories, smiled, they heard,
But time soon beckoned near.
Content, I stood to face the end,
Yet saw them shed a tear.

"Next time," they said, "please tell me more,"
And then they turned away.
Now, I wait, and write again,
For that return someday.