The hill of dying, not of death,
Is steeper,
And all the climbers gashed.
On hands and knees, I take a breath,
A creeper,
Barely moving, slashed.
And though the door of death is shut,
The keeper
Beckons with a skull.
“But if my death is why you cut,
Grim Reaper,
Why is your scythe so dull?”