Poem88: Death Flies

Death flies on wings of black
stalking me, seeking me out
Death never sleeps
I see her, on her spidery thin legs
her robe, tattered remnants
her sickle held high
ready for harvest.
She follows wherever I go
no matter how fast I run
and each year she gets closer.
One day she's going to catch me.
She has all the time in the world.