• Death

    The silent scream fills the air
    A blistery wind howls at a window
    Blood seeps into the floor
    What is dying has been shot by a man's bow.


    It crawls forward to try and escape
    The footsteps follow at a quickened pace
    He is coming, hurry and hide
    Before you die and see his face.


    Now lay there
    You poor dying thing
    Let the darkness take you
    As you hear the angels sing