Death becomes the dead

Like life becomes the newborn

Yet still I'm filled with dread

At the thought of his impending storm

Has man not tried to impede

His silently closing grasp?

Has he yet to deceive

Death of his only task?

When, shall I die?

Is answer all men seek

Stopping time is only the means

To avoid being reaped

Yet it is not the end that shakes me

But the thing after it, you see

There has yet to be a single soul

To tell of such things.

Are the golden gates there

Did you feel hells mighty sting?

Such thoughts cloud my mind

And send it swirling.

Alas these thoughts do irk my psyche

and deliver me to unrest

For I can never fathom this

nor would I put to the test