Death

That black coated harbinger,
Of fate unbecoming many a good man,
Leads us not astray,
But to better lands,
Where the flowing of time and instance,
And worries- sorrows, too,
Have past, not to return.
Whilst the cold and hate and fear,
All have taken their toll upon our souls,
While the sadness and qualms that plagued us,
Can not be said to endure,
In this place brought to us,
By a masked man of yore,
Feared by many,
Hated by more,
Yet unknown to us,
His song, Death’s balm,
Cures us of our bitter and wintry cold