The Demise of Death

I still see him Walking slowly beneath broken streetlamps, Sitting at the edge of the needle-strewn playground. He seems slower, less busy about his work, An air of defeat stains his scythe. I believe he is suffering from “post Covid trauma” For he is death and death is his His domain, his milieu, his life. He weeps as he talks of the pain Of death stolen, pilfered by politicians Secreted behind pain and plexiglass Inflicted upon the living by those who stole death from death itself used his ”scythe” to force compliance hold death hostage without ransom. Now he sits sorting through the detritus Of the weary, the wounded, the hopeless Who wander with him, sit with him Wondering how death could be so cruel.