Death, in their long cloak
of black smoke,
with a grinning silver scythe
held in a skeletal hand,

collects souls like
pressed flowers and
burnt out candle stubs,
keeping our names tucked away.

What happens when war comes
and the children all sit up,
shock on their faces
as they thought they were immortal?

Does Death sing them lullabies,
do you think?
Do they stop to wipe
the tears from ashen faces?

What happens when we all
come to an end?
Will they for ever wander through
ruined cities and poppy fields?

Or does Death’s time
run out as well?
Does the moment come
when the grief gets too much?

How many souls
can one creature carry
before their own
gives out?

Does Death have a soul?
I think there would come a moment
of relief at the scythe’s cool touch
and the end of it all.