Death carries a scythe

On borrowed time Ozymandias stood. And to dust he would return; to death, decay and ruin; for every second, for every minute Death carries a scythe. With it she pulls the second hand down and all the way up. She pulls the sun across the sky. She pushes the moon on its track. She scrapes the pages off my calendar; and scrapes the hair of my scalp; she pulls my skin slack. But within the same breath, she makes my heart beat; puts food on my plate. The harbinger of eternity, she nourishes me yet brings me to her anyway.