Death's Butler Poem by Ofentse Mercy Hajane

Two in the morning,
In a frost biting winter winds,
Swims a chattering of people in distraught.
The red and blue lights demeans the darkness as they stab through it in flash like speed.
On the ground lay a body of a lonely looking little girl.
Dress torn,
A sock missing.
Maybe venturing the lost plain of its inanimate world.
Like her shoes that seem scattered.
Her body lies around about the earth...
Mangled about.
Within an hour arrived a hearse.
Unnoticeable from the black background that elaborated (not)its vacant color.
The head and tail lights were the only untrustworthy colleagues to it.
Out climbed an old man whose face seemed dead from the vision of all the dead it hath bearded.
His scrawny bent body giving an impression of a marabou stork complete with a black suite and white shirt attire.
The sort that wavered not to the living but the dead.
He scavenged around the body like a vulture high up the sky.
Making sure that its dinner is not bestowed with any abilities to "bite back".
The old man I suppose as the world poured into him,
He stopped his ritualistic circling of the body.
Then let his vision fall toward the land and drone around.
Scouring for what?
Only the dead knows.
Those who lay taunted about as flowers do when ravaged by an inexperienced hand.
About her face that seemed to bore upon the living with a fright,
She had seemed quite frail to be the bearer of such end.
If beauty owns itself not, who is to say death own itself...?
An expression of a sigh paints across the old man.
For he dines with death,
And death packs him a fat stash to clean after his mess.
Not really a charming way to cease a day by its tail,
But ends it can tie very well fastened.
Like clothes for vacation the little horror is straightened up and packed away in a bag.
Another sour memory,
To agonise the mind of those whose clouds hast not grow light enough to lift from their mortal grounds.
Although each darkened by storms yet be explained by those whose days are docked young.
They're yet awaited by the welcoming arms of a marabou stork.
One whose tyres swirl around and head away into the break of dawn,
Maybe as a scourge to men.
A dark reminder that we are all banded by death.
Or maybe as a precious gift from death himself.