Death

Dressing in black, death travels the world, dragging his feet among the dust and remains of the bodies of the long dead.

His Back, hunched over, no longer bears the pride he once had when he first began his job.

His legs struggle to keep him upright.

His hands and arms tremble as they grasp tightly to his sickle.

His pockets are overflowing with still souls.

Death is tired of his job.

He is tired of gathering souls, his job, set be the one who made him, to clear the earth for fresh souls.

But he is tired of his job, from the time Adam and Eve were exiled from the Land of Eden to Judgement Day.

He does his job, year-round, with no vacation, and is never paid.

He can destroy kingdoms, tear apart families, wreck hopes, and cause the ruin of thousands.

And yet, he does not enjoy his power.

There was a time when he had enjoyed his job.

He revelled in causing the collapse of mighty empires, laughed in the wake of horrific natural disasters, and enjoyed seeing recognition in a dying’s one’s eyes.

Not Anymore

Now, in the wake of the World Wars, he sighs and goes to pick up the souls littered of the ground, piled up five deep.

No matter now many souls he collects, there are always more, waiting for him.

No matter how many souls are delivered to Hell’s doorstep, there are always more, begging to be allowed into his his hands.

Now he waits for the day when he, Death himself, will die.