Death's Claim

Death is strange, the way he settles in,
at the moment you least expect.
There's no rhyme or reason to the time he'll arrive,
nor the soul that he'll select.

He comes when you're not ready
and before you can utter a shout,
a chilling wind enters your house
and like a candle; snuffs you out.

As a lion leaps on its fallen prey,
Death will do the same.
He tears at skin and flesh and bone;
in blood he settles his claim.

It's odd how some parade through life,
without thought to when they might die.
Any life that's taken for granted
could end with a scream; with a sigh.

Death's worst and most horrific trait
is his insidious wit and guile.
A man might kill himself in grief;
on his face Death paints a smile.

Whether a corpse lies to rot in the woods,
or in a coffin full of nails,
its mystery will never unfold,
for dead men don't tell tales.