Death.

Death comes in in its black winged cloak

It comes at any moment of the day or night

It's entrance seems to fill every orifice with woe and despair, grief and anger.

It appears much too big to manage upon its arrival

For what do mortals do in the presence of death, other than shrink and cease to be?

Nonetheless, it has a task to complete, and like a faithful servant it knows its duty to its constituent.

Its duty must be fulfilled, and for that it knows it will be vilified until the end of time.

Death has no companion.

For its due, it leaves marks upon you. 

As if you were left naked in the cold and whipped against your bare back.

Tortuous.

It's as hard and bitter to swallow as rose thorns and dandelions.

It's as if you bore witness to hell itself.

Anguished.

Many mortal cries are uttered to appease the pain.

Yet undeterred, Death marches on. 

And like a judge that has been assigned to keep close watch of a time measured game, no closer eye is kept than the one by Death itself.

It's watch is an unrelenting one.

And it's judgment is unforgiving, and unwavering.

There are no overtimes or time outs that are issued in this game.

The clock runs out... the whistle is blown 

Times up, Times up, Times up.