He walks the streets, black-cloaked, striking heavy-handed. Bedecked with a veil of dewdrops, his crown lit with the halo of streetlights.
He stalks the shadows of my memories – his hand turns each page, begins and ends each chapter.
He will come for me, as he came for the others. My wife, Macy, has long been in his ledger. My boy, John, taken at eighteen – too young. Death waits in the wings of each moment, waiting to take his solemn steps onto the scene.
I will open my door at his knock, open my chest to his blade.
He will come soon, I’ve kept him waiting. He will come soon, but not soon enough.