His name is death and he rides a swift white horse of a ghost.

As if the last supper was to come, and you wish for the final host.

It all comes to your door when the final bell tolls

You look out on the mainland and see all the poor souls

You realize the end is near and you quiver at the thought

All the desperate prayers you sowed, all the countless battles you fought

You know you will awake and all will be well

And once again you will enter the market with your goods to sell.

Each day will be a toil for which you must overcome

Like the constant pounding of your heart like a constant beating drum

The time for all will come when God says it is time

So don’t take this with weight just know that it is a rhyme.

Frank Michael Scavullo