Death's Slow Courier

He moves as if time itself had grown a shell,

A pale little skull where a soft body dwells.

No hurry about him, no startle, no flight —

Just the long, quiet work of carrying night.

Is he bringing the end or just taking it home?

Does the garden grow darker wherever he roams?

Place him on shelf, step, or moss-covered stone —

And remember that even the ending moves slow.

4.5 × 2.2 × 5.1 inches