Drifting. Drifting through life with a scythe in my hand, no one but me can see. The people walk into the scythe in my hand and straight back out alive. The scythe it remains right by my side while the whole world seems to hide away terrified. Crashing. Crashing through life with a scythe in my hand playing with the game of life. The scythe it cuts thee like cupid’s dark arrow impaling the heart.
Tripping. Tripping through life with a scythe above my head, closer and closer, yet further and further away. It stalks me, it taunts me right above my head following my footsteps fumbling away at what is to be done. Crumbling. Crumbling through life with a scythe above my head looking up at the clouds and six feet under the ground. Laughing at my every move, it inches closer when it has the chance. Its midnight eyes are watching me.
Tumbling. Tumbling through life with a scythe around my neck with promises of salvation engraved on the handle. They may be blind to it, but their conscious reeks with realisation. They drag, they wrench, they heave the scythe from around my neck, but it won’t go. It’s permanant. Leave the scythe around my neck for only I can detach its hold. Limping. Limping through life with a scythe around my neck visible for the whole world to see. It remains there staring impatiently at the clock ticking away to our dusty deaths. Gone.