• I am the man for whom Death waits with infinite patience.
    I can feel his cold, tired eyes piercing me in the distance.
    He is old and grey, his clothes a torn remnant of what he once was.
    His eyes are dark from the millions of humans... all at a loss
    As he approaches them gingerly with a mournful expression
    And allows, in their last breathe, the last view of hope
    Before the end has arrived, and all that is left is
    The agony with which only Death himself can cope.

    For death Death is a man who has had many a year
    To learn to accept his lot in life without a tear.
    But it is only I for whom he must truly wait.
    And in my life I mourn only that I am far too late.