His Cold Touch

This is a poem on death.

His Cold Touch

I feel his hand brush my chin
My blood runs cold
I knew he'd come back again
To claim my very soul
He tried before
To no avail
I knew I'd see him again
I've been quite unwell
I've felt his eyeless sockets
Staring from afar
I felt his grip in the night
My chest bares the scar
He doesn't give up
He waits patiently
Every time my eyes close
He's by my bed side see
He's bruised me badly
I guess I gave a hand
Living wrong eating wrong
Too late now to take a stand
Last night my room felt eerie
So my eyes did open wet
Tears were streaming down
As I looked into the face of death