It is never cold in March
But this chill down my spine is unshakeable
As I walked to the bathroom the fourth time
I wonder who has been waking me up
I didn't see the face and to no one, it I could trace
But deep within me, I know it is my visitor
That person I know exists, but his face I have never seen
He came, he took my hand
I brushed it away but he held it back
I tried to cry and to whistle like a kettle but I was dry
I tried to shout, to reach out, but words failed me
I thought I was strong but no I was wrong
I knew after trudging through life
In which I was neither happy or unhappy he has visited
Then I tried to shake off the ghost feeling that enveloped me
But, my visitor was deemed to visit me
Then like being in a trance, for the last time
I found myself there in his arms our hands clasping like two lovers walking
The visitor, he took me away but there in my bed I was lying
My in and out gone!
This talks about death. The visitor here is death