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When slumber o’er-takes the steadfast state
Of worried wakefulness;
When sleep comes silently and unshaken
From the greying corners of your soul forsaken …
It is then you shall feel my cold caress
Upon the sweet instrument of your breath.

In the isolation of senseless sleep
I shall be your escort.
Close by your side, in torpor stillness,
Like the sardonic smile of an agèd illness
I shall creep, carefully and thwart
All attempts by which you did once cavort

With powerful and perfidious priests,
Deceitful men of the cloth.
What delight in stealing your last breath!
For I my dear, am your Death.
I sneer at Heaven’s wroth;
And thereto I pledge thee my troth.

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Hamish McGee
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