That dreaded day the Reaper knocks my door

And takes me by the hand to where souls go,

I shall not pause, no mercy to implore

For he is but a minister of woe;

A grim dark escort bridging life and death,

Base servant of some master far beyond,

Dire highwayman that steals living breath—

Replete of pleas that his rude choice be wrong.

He has taken many a hand of friend

And yet of dearest family members too

While loved ones begged reprieve until the end,

 For love of God — still nothing there to do.

I’m not afraid, I’ve seen his surly frown…

Yet one angst plays…will I go up or down?