Around this place so cruelly quiet,
Souls kept in boxes of wood and gold.
Stone angels scratch their aching wings,
and none pay heed to the deadly cold.

All are welcome to this place of rest,
though you may wish to avoid its touch.
You'll eventually enter this cold realm,
though perhaps not to notice it all that much.

With the mists of time upon the ground,
and faceless names upon the stones,
The cold air touches the flesh of none,
Because all here are made of bones.

Though some may fear the icey touch,
Of the keeper of this bleak gate,
Others pay tribute to his caress.
Still, to meet this spectre is your fate.

When walking through this space of things left behind,
Eventually, all alone, you feel his breath.
Yet kindred to this spirit you feel,
The keeper of this yard - Gentleman Death.