Vigilia Mortis

The clock's hands crawl forward in a beautiful macabre dance. Each tick a beat, Each tock a soul's last chance. The Reaper grins and waits, with scythe in hand, A silent guest, across the land. The air is still and the moon hangs low. A ghostly chill and a haunting glow. The shadows creep and crawl and fear takes hold. The heart beats slow like a fading drum. The end is near and the final time has come. Vigilia Mortis, the watch of death. The clock chimes. The Grim Reaper grins and creeps near and waits, with bated breath for you, my dear.