Don't mind me here,

i'll wait for your pass.

I'll wait for your sand

to empty the glass.

     What's with that face?

You look at me strange.

I've just been waitin'

for diligent mange.

     That's right, you heard me,

i'll wait eighty years.

Just wait 'til i'm called

and i'll reap all your fears.

     Don't mind my cloak

and skulls of the dead.

Don't mind my scythe

and the blood that drips red.

     Now, what are you doing?

Writing for what?

Why would you scribe

only for words to be cut?

     You know, you should listen,

i've been around quite long.

Trust me, this writing thing,

it's offly wrong.

     No one will read it.

Not a single soul.

No one would care

your toil's useless toll.

     But me, on the otherhand,

i'd use my breath.

Give it to an ol' friend,

give it to ol' Death.

     What is this madness?

What terrible style!

Just throw it away!

Such garbage and bile!
     What was that you say?

You don't write for me?

You don't write to live

for an eternity?

     You don't want your name

in glamorous lights?

How could you not?

It's only your right.

     What do you mean,

you don't write for now?

Neither you write for worships

and bows?

     Say what now?!

You write for the then?

You write to aid some

where sins can be cleansed?

     You write to inspire?

To help those in need?

Now, why would you write

for future's own seed?
     Well fine then, my dear.

Have it your way.

Write as you please,

but i'm here to stay.

     Scribe to aid others

words that are sprawled

Just don't mind me here,

i'll wait to be called.