Six decades of your youthful life,

Suffering is all that is to come.

Defying your fate to escape my scythe,

Never happens for anyone, not even some.

The lines of death scar your face.

The more you count the faster I chase. 

No bones under your shriveled skin will listen to your demands.

And they will move only to my commands.

O my servants make him crumble to his knees, 

On the day he makes his last breath.

That will be the last moments of yours.

You call it death.

When I slice your string with the tip of my scythe, 

Your eyes will shut.

Your life; 

You might have ended it in the shell of a nut.

The clock ticks. 

Every tick, one second lost.

Dreams might have been a reality.

Dreams might be too late to chase.