He donned black, his usual shade
Slipped on a jacket, old and frayed
Worn boots that had seen many winters
Picked up his shovel, heedless of splinters

Company to tend, he must make haste
With eventide fading and no time to waste
The stars glitter faintly, frigid candlelight
Owls hoot the low symphony of the night

Humming a tune that most have forgotten
He tramples the earth below, so sodden
A nod in greeting to those who can't speak
Opens the door with a grunt and a creak

"Welcome", he says, in a hoarse salutation
"We've room for all with due accommodation"
His chuckle is more cough, nay a wheeze
As he shuffles back out in a jingle of keys

The guests roll into their luxury suites
In a rustle of cloth and rigamortis feet
Absent were smiles as dead eyes looked ahead
Spent, their host hoisted dirt on their heads

"Do let me know if you've any complaints"
Mocking, his laughter escaped through the gates

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Phaestian, in the year 639 AF.