the portrait of death

one by one,

they slowly go.

into the river?

i don't know.

but it seems to be some strange pattern.

they are taken by the same strange person.

his hands are cold,

his teeth are white,

he doesn't sleep,

even though you might.

scattered along the paths to the field,

the flowers grow,

and so do weeds too.

the mother of all strange sights,

i'll lie in the fields at midnight,

eating boiled peanuts,

and beers i might.

it scares me slowly,

it tortures me for a bit,

and then in the end,

a little slit.

we're going off,

one by one.

it's not a choice.

it's the time that matters,

and now its time for yours.