An Appointment With Death On The 44th Floor

Written by: Gary Wayne Hill

Beads of sweat On my head Sodden and sore In my sick bed The last battle lost Can’t fight anymore As I lay dying on the 44th floor The elevator makes A slow ascent Something inside With just one intent Air cools I am chilled Right to the core As I lay dying on the 44th floor No more to do, much too late To argue with My destined fate Skeletal fingers Tap, tap at my door As I lay dying on the 44th floor Soulless eye sockets Like two bottomless pits On the end of my bed The reaper there sits Whispering “Oh what a treat For you is in store” As I lay dying on the 44th floor The fire in the hearth Gave death a strange glow Throat parched and dry, Tried to yell "no" The glimpse of a scythe, The last thing I saw As I lay dead on the 44th floor