He’s tired and he’s weary but his heart is on fire.
His baggage is heavy but his head is on dire.
With heavy and rushed footsteps, he ran.
Chased by his own shadow and the man.

Black like a crow, hand carrying a scythe.
Faceless the man is but wears a smile of blithe.
He looks back but sees nothing, panic setting within.
For he knows all too well that the man is closing in.

His lungs are giving out but the voices are alive
Collapsing on the ground, his breath pushes to strive
As the place gets filled with his ear-splitting scream,
His heart beating loud—too loud, it can’t be a dream.

He rakes the ground with his fingers, digging his nails in.
Deeper—his soul deliberately ravaged by the man with a grin.
Deeper—a little more to escape from the man in the black shawl.
And deeper—he fits himself and lets the ground swallow him whole.