One night Death came to visit me

And offered me a cup of tea.

I did not mention it was cold

And carefully sipped around the mold.

He sat himself in my good chair

And leveled me his deathly stare.

While the clock wound slowly down

I met his stare with equal frown.

The nature of his line of work,

led some to think he was a jerk.

And though, by most, he was considered grim,

in fact I found myself becoming fairly fond of him.

He spoke of those head to reap 

at one point he began to weep. 

With a sob he did insist 

he knows these souls are dearly missed.

Through his tears he looked at me,

said to close my eyes so I would not see.

Unable to bear the weight of what he felt

death turned his scythe upon himself.

*I am loving this round robin style of RECording. I love the idea of death being ashamed of what he does and trying to run away from it. Does it work? Who will do his job? I hope somebody picks up the story and keeps this going!*