'Twas upon the cusp of dawning
When I awoke one early morning
To the sound of certain screaming
Though unsure if I’d been dreaming

To the bedknob I was nearing
Still unsure what I’d been hearing
Brassing somehow for the door
And of what might stand before

My tired eyes wide open
Yet no whisper had I spoken
When a voice echoed to me
“Who art thou, that dost beseech me?”

My shaking voice, though coming frail
Somehow uttered, “Mr. Lombale”
Staring through darkness upon the door
Though the voice said nothing more

Just an echo from the door
As I inched for something more
Just a whisper, felt afore
Just an echo, nothing more

My mind now in distortion
Had no fear, to tread with caution
And I stepped into the hall
Eyeing shadows on the wall

Then the light began to change
And the shadows disarranged
As the voice came through once more
“Why art thou before my door?”

I stumbled at his question
Awaiting somehow, some suggestion
Knowing nothing of this door
That I supposedly stood before

So in demand, I spoke, though brief
“Who art thou, that givest me grief?”
Hoping defiance would bring a cease
I went to return to bed in peace

And then it came, the sudden force
Pulling me backwards, to all discourse
I closed my eyes and started to pray
When then I came to, in a hospital bay

Bleary-eyed and feeling weary
Yet still with that sense of something eerie
I sat up straight in the hospital bed
And then it came, that voice and said

“Maybe next year
Maybe in four
Till then I don’t want
You and Death keeping score”