[untitled]

His eyes are the cold black depths

In which the old, sick, and curious fall

They hold the last sights and thoughts

Of those who take his hand at the end

Who is he?

 

His voice is the sweet melody

That rocks away the worries before

Your final moments and lures you into

A peaceful state of mine – if you are lucky

Who is he?

 

His clothes are the patches of cloth

Taken from his most recent clients

As to hold a piece of them in his world

Until he collects enough for a new item.

Who is he?

 

The tattoos that cover his bony arms

Are the faces of those clients, some eager

For his service; others – scared and not

Yet ready to leave behind their world

Who is he?

 

He is the face that most fear and some

Idolize. He is a hero to some, a criminal

To others. He is only who you believe

Him to be. So tell me,

Who is he?