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.