The Painting of Death

O, Death
His blood is spread across the walls.
Harsh brush strokes of tar.
Bubbles of paint that stay on the top
O, Death
Fear his chime as his features come to life.
Better paint faster says the voice in your head.
Throwing a bucket of paint at the man who comes.
But oh no, the black paint creaks through the cracks.
His lips do but cross across your wall.
O death!
He comes closer.
Mark him I say.
His bubbly tar falling on your floor.
His white pale eyes gazing back at you.
For he is death.
As he stands, knife in hand.
You drop your brush, and take his hand .
For now it is your end.