Tremble.

Death is at your door,
Knocking; just knocking.
A question forms a glitter in your pupil,
Reverberating in the air as excited swarms of insects.
As the floor is eaten beneath the wheels
And the lights escape above the glass,
They are freed.
And whos hands are trembling darling?
When the doorbell wails to the music of squealing tyres.

Death is at your door
With open arms and an answer to your question,
Im so sorry ma'am, it's bad news...