He's there again,

that shadow.

Waiflike

wings and floating

from one to the other,

awaiting the final expiration,

and grasp a solitary soul.

 

In multitudes they hover.

Vacant eyes,

 like washed out skies.

Once vibrant

but humble now.

No remnant

of where or how

or when.

Or even why?

 

I see him there,

a shadow,

not grim or menacing,

and I know

  I'm not seeing things.

A spectre

 cast upon a wall

just waiting,

for a humble soul.

 

Someday

He'll come for us

and we'll stare,

 with the vacant eyes

of washed out skies

and wait

till the time is right

to say our last goodbye.