I like to write about the light.
And make you feel alright.
But then the darkness takes my breath.
And I get angry and my writing pokes a stick at death.
You see I have no fear of that pretender.
If death appears at least be tender.
If it’s unavoidable.
I’m ready and able to be voidable.
You see there is not a thing I can do,
If the grim reaper says, peek-a-boo, I see you.
Just be quick, you know I hate to be late.
And I hate to wait or delay fate.
But please forgive me for just one moment.
While I hack your bestowment.