Your head is a mess of guilt and self hatred.
Of letters unopened, of jobs left undone, bills left unpaid, summons ignored.
The reaper too grim, too ghastly to face.
Loud bang at the door, you squirm and hide. A demand for your blood, your spirit, your life.
You wait for the axe, the force and blow.
He leaves you to die by the side of the road.
-T-
