They'd always been surrounded by Death

Even if they hadn't known it, He was always there,

tracing clawed fingers along an icy path over their skin and creeping into their breath

Seeping into their bones like a chilly glare

But now it was far more literal, they mused

as they gazed wearily about themself at

the macabre rows of stones labeled with Death's touch, weathered and bruised,

Poor souls turning over in their graves- oh, they could just hear them over the sounds of scurrying rats

Moans of a hundred lives past flashed through their head,

Flooding their ears and their eyes,

A deluge of horror and dread as they forced their thoughts upon the dead

As they stood still, so very still, among Death and among Life and the twittering of fireflies