Ode To Death Redux

he who wields scythe aloft to reap a withered and ageing crop the harvest of the doomed and lost who fell to their winter's frost the skeletal hand you must now hold clenched so you may better feel the cold the weak, the strong, the timid, the bold the masses who shall no longer grow old shed a tear for those now expired and pray you not soon shall tire and not six feet under, mired when extinguished, fragile fire the dead do not love the bones do not feel the ground does not listen and all those with eyes to see must someday forever sleep.