Do you hear the angel
coming, drawing ever near?
Driving mortal men before him, filled with constant fear?
Can you hear his
footsteps, quiet on the earth?
Or perhaps you hear the flutter of wings which still all sounds of mirth.
Do you hear his
whispered voice, a gentle, raspy wheeze,
Or do you feel his cold, slow breath slipping through the breeze?
And though I ask it
matters not what you hear or do,
Because you know that in the end, death will come for you.