17/07 Reaper

The call of the grim
Calls me near
I near his clanging bell
His crooked footsteps
Clacking bone on the stone
Cobbles
I close my eyes
And his breath is cold
Shivering the back of my neck
A whisper of freshness
And death
He is near
And he is coming
Coming for you, for him, for I
With exposed eye holes
No nose and a hinged jaw
His sharpened blade swings
Swings
To meet your throat