Mr G. Reaper

What is death?
Who is that figure?
That hooded devil,
Of a killer.
Why does he do it?
What’s his aim?
Beyond the spread
Of grievous pain
Does he like it?
Final breaths,
Stilling hearts
Within their chests, 
The sodden sight
Of a damp bouquet,
The slow gnawing
Of great decay.
Or does he hate
His occupation? 
And all it’s pretty
Degradation 
Does his despise
His gift for grief
And the fact
He’s life’s motif
Does Death travel light
And soft and swift
To clock in for his 
Eternal shift
And toil away
In Heinous slog
Since after all
A jobs a job.