Book of Death

A price to pay

"Everything," he said. "has price to pay."

It wasn't up until that day, when winter came and blew away all pleasantries--nothing remained.

I realized of what he spoke--the hollow feeling of lost hope.

The ever creeping blackened hand, which slowly crawls to where you stand.

The fleeting thing which we call life was what he sought to stow in his old tattered pouch of countless souls.

"I'm not ready." I said, defending the small fragment of time I had.

"It's done. It's gone. The life you had, no more. You're Dead."

The words had resonated in my head.

Like echoes from a cliff it spread.

I'm dead.

I'm dead.