She’s at the gate, she keeps my key,
I hear her footsteps then—
They’re slight and quiet as winter snow,
She’s locked outside and won’t come in.
She floats so high, the shadows shift,
Whispers by the windowpane.
I see her eyes like stars reflection;
The needle meets my vein.
She is so close, her dark wings flex,
Though she’s heard by me alone—
While a nurse claims this fool’s asleep,
He’s ignorant to what I have known.
Midnight comes, the hallways sigh,
The ward is quiet but I’m awake.
Her coming brings a chill to me,
Knowing she’s here for me to take.
The air is cold, made of frost,
Tonight she’s knocking at my door.
Soon she’ll come to tear it down,
And I know what’s in store.
The walls are thin, I hear her voice,
It’s calm and like a winter’s breath.
Though no one else can hear her speak,
I no longer feel alone in death.
The floorboards creak, her steps are slow,
But she moves without a sound—
And it matters not how much I try,
No comfort in their words I found.
She guards the gate, she holds the key,
Now she’s opening my door.
Widened eyes fill the gap,
And fear chills me to the core.
She does not walk, she only drifts,
Hovering to the foot of my hospital bed—
And as her phantom wings take over me,
My open wound is bled.
She is the lady of the key,
A sentinel at the Gate.
And with a final kiss farewell,
I fall unto my fate.
She guards the gate, she holds the scythe,
Tonight you’ll watch me die,
But Death is kind in a peculiar way,
For this is not goodbye.