A Debt Called Death

He's ghost was no longer showcasing his pulse on the monitor his lifeline still and horizontal like a coffin. No longer was he entertaining doctors with his senile mortality his lungs had no pride to offer them While they were still Fine tuning his body like a radio "Is it working?" "Is it working?" "Is it working?" their superhero complex faced capes failed them They came back to the laws of space and time And the time of death was, "18H30" With all their distinctions all the had to show for it was his corpse And We watched his body play a lullaby of serenity We watched it like a still life painting by an old master No longer would it's grey hair give us strength, courage and security. No longer would it complain about leg pains every night. No longer would it watch sports like a senseless beast shouting at the TV screen. In all languages alike it is history now. The Big Vulture has come to collect his debt that we all owe. A debt we avoid with a blind passion. A debt called Death.