Stalker (Poetry)

The shadow moves, no sound, no shape;
it haunts the corner of the eye;
insinuates there's no escape
and follows, ominous and sly.
As shivers run, our ears are pricked,
fine-tuned to wave lengths, distant, strange,
and heightened senses panic, tricked
by something lurking, out of range.
We know he's there - the one who stalks
us through the valley of our fears -
the mugger who so silent walks
and dogs our path down all the years,
until the day he steals our breath
and whispers "Hi, my name is Death!"