He creeps, and he lurks;
the soul-taker lies in wait.
Like a morbid statistician;
anxious for your death date.
Punctual in his appointments:
Death dons a clever disguise.
When your hourglass runs out,
he pounces before you realize.
At times its a soldier’s uniform
or a surgeon’s bloody scrubs.
In all, Death wears many suits;
shuffled like the ace of clubs.
He takes great pride in his work;
swooping down to seize your life.
An artist employs many methods;
whether by bullet, poison or knife.
The reaper always slithers near;
deftly camouflaged in the dark.
Your carrion ghoul waits to strike.
In his book he’ll leave your mark.