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Gliding between headstones, he searches,
The cloak flows around the wraith,
Black as midnight, red eyes glaring,
Beneath a hood drooped low,
The void of his face stares through night,
The graves are his walkway to us,
A scythe ready within his hand,
A low weezing, rasping from him,
The Reaper moves without a sound from his feet,
We sit, huddled, not fearing death,
Nor the pain of when he strikes us,
But his own pride when he discovers us,
Hidden in the tomb, within the coffin.
He would not expect mortal man to go there,
Yet if he finds us, his own pride will overshadow us,
The shade moves closer, we lay,
Pale bodies intertwined, black hair tangled,
Empty eyes looking into empty eyes,
Emotionless except for the concern,
Of our discovery, but I must be silent now,
For I heard the door open,
And the scythe raise above the coffin.