Death's Chill Touch

He comes,
Cloaked in shadow,
Angry feral eyes glaring from within darkness,
Coal-red, the flames of hell stabbing
From within the dark hood hiding his countenance.

Reaching,
A thin finger,
Cold ivory weathered yellow with time's cruelty;
Claws marked by sharpening upon
The same iron gates hell-hound Cerberus protects.

His breath
From arctic chill
Sets final frost upon the soul's sacred fabric;
Chilling his prey's still-beating hearts
Filling lungs with the arcing pain from biting cold.

His law
Inescapable
Set forth by the touch of his ivory fingers
Penetrating the breast alive
Quenching the ill-fated soul with a final sigh.