"Here's a challenge for you,"
He told me one afternoon.
We were finished studying
And boredom wasn't an option.

"Fire away," I answered,
Mind and pen already craving the task.

"Describe the colors black
And grey without saying the words."

I had an answer ready.
"A perfect villain."

He smirked. "You're a poet.
I know you can better."

I had another answer.
"Let me tell you a story.
But, be warned,
It isn't a happy one."

He rocked his chair
Back on two legs and
Folded his ink stained
Hands behind his head, waiting.

"He'd never killed anyone before.
The occasional art forgery, sure.
Dabbling in counterfeiting, guilty.
But he had never hurt anyone.
Now, as he looked at the man lying
Lifeless at his feet,
A part of his heart joined
The victim in the grave.
His life was over.

Twenty years later.

He didn't really keep track of time.
What was the point?
After all, we were all destined for the grave.
Might as well not count down the days to it.
He and death were old friends,
Well acquainted from many meetings.
He was Charon,
He ferried the dead.
Neither good nor evil,
He just was.
One day,
He wouldn't be."

My friend gave me one
Of his favored smirks.
"See? I told you
That you cold do better."