Stealthy crept; thou creep to the door,
Tap; tap, too persistent to ignore.
The tales spun, thou spin so smooth,
Gliding down like gin and vermouth.
Coughing, choking stealing a breath,
Wanting, yearning a quickening death.
Gradually stealing, thou steals every year,
A stench of mortality won't disappear.
Tales spun are the essences of life,
Twisting, turning reaper's dull little knife.
So wrinkles and gray hair follow mine wake,
While slowly death....with each breath I partake.