Waiting Room of Death

The room was claustrophobic and the people in their chairs,
each unnerved and each unnerving, staring blankly at the stairs.
He descended from his throne to pick us off, one by one.
I was the last, alone and lonely, when the rest were done.
And a new wave rushed in through the door and washed me near away:
tan and yellow, old ones reading, tiny children sit and play.
And he took them, old and new, and tan and yellow, up the stair.
And I darted, frantic eyes and shaking fingers, to my chair.
And what held us all together and what set us all apart
was the paint of blue and white and music calming to the heart.
But what made me more the terrified than any of them there...
I knew what waited past the door, beyond the dismal stair.
Chiming music, false securities, the echoed scream of breath.
The blackest angel's holding pen; the waiting room of Death.