Here is my cold, limp body.
Stashed in the back seat.
Car rushing for hiding.
So I could be hidden,
And never found.
Dragged out into the brush of the woods.
Body thrown into leaves.
They ran back and drove off.
Then I rise and look at myself.
So this is what it's like to be dead?
Staring at yourself?
No more time to think,
A cold wind blows through.
The black-cloaked death bringer,
Scythe in hand.
My heart pounding with fear.
My soul grows cold.
I run.
Back into the murderer's car.
To get away is my only thought.
I look behind me.
It walks to where I lay.
My heart still pounding.
Will he find me?