He knows I'm waiting for him. He's been taunting me from just outside the door. Day after day, I hear the same cold voice repeating the same incoherent poetry:
Tick tock,
the battle stops.
God takes back
from the forgotten flock.
In His sleep
gifts make their play.
For men who decide
not to fade away.
When he finishes spewing this nonsense, he rattles the doorknob. He wants to keep me guessing. He won't let me sleep.
When he finally comes through that door, one of us will surely die. Or so he imagines. If it's to be me, though, he'll have to figure out a way to counteract the "gift" he's given me.
But I've made other preparations.
And so I wait.