Futile attempts being made
 ignoring all warnings that have been said,
  this poor human starts his race,
   haunted by the shadow'd face.

    closer, closer
     his pursuer draws near,
      the banshee's screech he now hears...

       tick, tock,
        so goes the clock,
         as time winds down
          the bell doth sounds.
 
           He trips...
            His heart skips...
             His life is done,
              Death always claims
               so why run?