Grim

he roams the cemetery

bony fingers tapping over headstones,

they tell him where he is,

where he needs to go,

whose soul to take next.

There is no one here yet

Master, please rest

one says

others ignore him

whispering, anticipating, demanding

Break, Break, Break

Fog thickens,

Choke, Choke, Choke

and,

then,

disperses.

the dead are silenced

as his grip loosens on the scythe,

his head lowers

he has gone to sleep