The Eleventh Hour

At the last minute, a dark and ominous figure arrives to take souls to death. This angel of demise brings fear and sorrow, watching as each heartbeat awaits its fate. In death's kingdom, there is no mercy. The spirit is called and death claims its prize. The journey to the afterlife is somber. At the eleventh hour, a sepulchral shadow, biding his time for the final draw of breath. An unwelcome guest of Maccabean comes to deliver surrendering souls to death. Dark angel of demise, surrounded by sorrow, hovering above the heart's final hot coals in vile vapours which chisel the marrow, instilling terror into life's very core. As the living and breathing grapples within silence, hollow eyes watchful as each heartbeat waits. There is no mercy to death's decaying hands. For in that kingdom, supreme, he reigns. The time is nigh, the spirit is beckoned, the angel of death collects his prize. Winking at your home, bone-drifting on the sticks, the journey to the other realm a bit mournful slides.