Poetry 7.7

It’s coming, the haunting hunter,

It doesn’t wear a cloak or carry a weapon,

But it’s coming – it takes the speech first.

Leave no words, keep the mystery alive.

Closer now breathing in the room

Eye sight fades to it.

But the mind has left its comforts

Dreams to hide the approach to soothe

It’s touching now. Sapping away all sense of feeling – kissing the last breath away.

Death was here.