Tis But Death

the stranger arrives,
his voice almost remembered,
his smell like rain,

and something else.
his soft insistent knock
rings like a bell,

his hand on the knob...
can you hear?
the sound of his footfall....

tis but death come knocking...
he brings no baggage.
will you open the door?

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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