Death waiteth at the door?
Nay, but he hath come inside
and what pain and loss he hoards
makes me my life despise

His hand clutches at my heart
his breath chills me to the soul
my flesh he tears apart
my mind is bitter cold.

I am no more
and say thee now
death waiteth at the door?

Hath death slain me?
Or me myself?
Write the end, I pray thee,
as a book on a dusty shelf

Never to be read
only to be known
that I am truly dead
and what seeds that I have sown.