On Hummingbird Hill

On Hummingbird Hill

With a rap and a tap on my room's windowsill,
in my home at the top up on Hummingbird Hill,
comes the Angel of Death, O’, his osseous grin.
Should I go—I don’t know—should I just let him in?

 Now the Angel of Death has since stolen my breath,
as the breadth of his wings beat a rhythm of death.
And his glare is the stare of a thing without care.
Do I pick up and follow—must I follow him there?

 Thus my heart heaved but once then forever grew still,
as he swooped in and scooped out my soul for the kill.
So I picked up and followed—and I follow him still.
To the glade with the grave up on Hummingbird Hill.