Death encroaching
up the road well-traveled, toeing the
yellow lines, kicking dust from its boots.
It knows not where it heads, but
blindly follows the weary speech of travelers
long gone.

An old shack, rotting wood and splintered
bone, through the door it walks, shivering
the hinges an early winter. Boards creak
underfoot, and pleading eyes look up
from a face wrinkled enough to know.

Through dusty towns it walks, drawing
eyes shining with life and age towards the
beaked mask black against horror and hope.
Pebbles ground underfoot, but with precision,
each one chosen by the shadowed heel.

Boys run across roads, chasing careless *****
with thoughts between moments.
A dark stranger passes, shoulders knocked
and apologies thrown. The ground littered,
amidst rock and dust, but the boots pass on,
ignored but to be remembered.