Death

The mean season has descended, laying effective waste to what has passed; with hoarfrost talons and Nordic breath, ripping throats and wheezing words of consumptive finality. With panther-like stealth, this predatory carnivore prowls the very constructs of life, the avenues and gardens of creation, cracking stone and brick, withering grass and bloom. It may be far from over, yet I feel it’s cold, hungry strategy, it’s muted, dead approach. I sense the freezing gyros precisely tilting, guiding it’s trajectory towards my door. The door stands ajar, presently, but slowly swinging wider, allowing access space for Death.