Trapped under the ice of impending death.
An icy cold chill that holds like a vice.
You sit and you wait in your prison of ice.
The Grim Reaper's so close that you smell his breath.
You're miserable waiting to die like a fool,
And your feelings are numb from losing all care.
It gets hard to breathe...you feel lack of air,
And you sense the quick swipe of Death's sharpened tool.
But now that it's over, you feel no more pain.
You don't have to worry about torturous rain.
The ice is all gone; you are no longer caught.
You've waited and stalled, but no time has been bought.
So smile, you're dead, your life is now done,
And it was just you, not Death, that has won.