Death, the owner of the

town’s mausoleum.

He visited me today.

He might want to stay.

Thump thump thump

There he saunters up the steps.

Knock knock knock

There he drums on the door.

creeeeek...

He smelled like rot and decay,

his face was peeling away

and worst of all,

he has come to stay.

His old ratty shoes

trek mud on the carpet.

His dull rusty shovel

is covered in dirt.

I don’t want him to stay.

He sips all the cider,

devours the dessert.

Crumbs scatter on the floor

and he swivels in the seat.

He stares with his wild eyes.

Bloodshot, teary, open wide.

The rotting flesh

acrid and bitter in the air.

That smell will stay.

His deed-

what must he do?

I don’t want him to do.

But he has to do.

He pats me on the shoulder,

and parts his mouth to say,

“I’m sorry.

Your child can’t stay.”

I… want him… to stay.

Death took him away.