A shiny vine that climbs up the side and grinds all the mortar out
A tiny worm that winds through your mind and tunnels deep throughout
A photograph in fading color, a bruise that's yet to bloom
Death slowly shuts its mouth and ups to leave the room

A little shiver that soon proves feverish, shaking, sweating for air
A magician's swift illusion, a hope that was never there
A scalpel in a shaking hand, a clotting pool of doubt
Death slowly shakes his head, 'cuz he'll sit this one out