He sits hunched on a bench
Head down in depression
His job of mind splitting Hell

His hair a sharp silver
His skin a corpse white
His expression of dark fear

His sits and waits
Staring a hole through the ground
His eyes, a still painting

His clothes of the darkest black
He holds a book of old
A watch on his arm missing the time

A shadow drapes over him
The air is stale
You wonder what he is waiting for

His arm slowly rises
A finger attacked by age extends
….YOU!