The Soul Collecter

An ominous cloak of inevitability
Slides under my door.
It sinks into my skin, pokes and prods
With each strike of the cruel master's arm.

There it waits, anticipating, watching
Like the shadows of trees in scorching lands.
It reminds me in mundane pursuits,
Of pruning skin and thinning hair.

The inescapable stone
Which will soon carve my name.
It tries to comfort with petals and keepsakes.
But it does not matter, fore I am not there.