An Appointment With Death On the 44th Floor
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
Copyright © Gary Wayne Hill | Year Posted 2013
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