Death

The house was perched apon the hill,
In the early morning with everything still,

The temperature within the house had dropped,

The clock ticked once more and then it stopped.

The occupants are asleep in rooms up the stairs,

Adrift in their dreamland and away from their cares,

Something was stirring in the dwelling below,

Something so scary only a few people know.

The black shrouded figure seemed to appear in the hall,

A scythe in its hand as the figure seemed tall,

Without making a sound it moved through the place,

And up the stairs with its deathly grace.

The room on the right is where it was heading,

Entering the room the darkness was spreading,

The father of the family was laying there alone,

Wrapped snuggly in blankets deep in his sleep zone.

The black shrouded figure reached out with its touch,

Penetrating his chest wall with a bony hand clutch,

It pulled out a object wrapped up in a light source,

And retrieved without stirring the father's true life force.

The figure withdrew as it exited the room,

And disappeared in the mornings hazy filled gloom,

The father of the family laid still in his bed,

And no longer breathing just laying there dead.