The End

What is this cloud that hangs over my head?

It follows me like some form of dread, 

Waiting, watching, readying the strike. 

I fear the moment it drops its impaling spike. 

What is this feeling that hovers near?

I can feel its presence as building fear.

It leans over my shoulder, 

Then vanishes as I turn, 

But I know it is growing bolder.

I fear what I will learn. 

What is this shadow that crouches over there?

It is seen one moment, and vanished the next. 

Its eyes rest on me, raising my hair.

I feel as if I have been hexed. 

What is this creature that sits close by?

Why do its eyes say that I have to die?

I am not ready, and never will be. 

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