Death

The demonic wind whipped through my hair.
The smell of brimstone filled the air.
His bony fingers reached out and pointed.
Although unexpected, this visit was preappointed.
Although the man screamed and kicked,
There was no way out of death’s bony grip.
The hooded figure swung his scythe,
And on that night he took the man’s life.
Death’s grip will come once more,
Maybe to knock at your door