The flourishing petals of a flower once sweet,
Wilt in the shadows, so cold and so bleak.
A sigh of the wind, ruffles his hair,
Eyes open wide, gripping despair.
One breath flees his lips, a touch of the Reaper,
His bud seals shut, and mind withdraws deeper.
A white demon face as pale as the snow,
'Come' says the angel, 'now we must go.'