In the city of shadows, I’m known by all,
Yet I speak not a word, and I take no call.
When I knock, doors open, no need for keys,
I settle all debts, no begging, no pleas.

Some fear me like fire, some greet me like kin,
I wear many faces, thick leather or thin.
You can try to outrun me, hide or delay,
But sooner or later—I’ll have my say.

What am I?

I’m the end that all must face,

No lock can keep me from my place.

Silent steps that none evade,

The final debt forever paid.

I’m not life, but close I tread,

The quiet guest who greets the dead.

Name me now, if you dare,

For I am, Death, the answer rare.

Camzilla is the IRS. Now I have one.

You go at red but I stop at green. What am I?

A brit.