Two attempts on a same story

1.
He comes through nightmares to your doors,
bringing with him the chill
of those old moores
which hold men beyond all payers
beyond good will.

Many know, few dare to think,
that you've seen him stride the street.
And if you do, your heart would sink
-for your hope it's someone else
he's there' to meet.

He has too young look
for such old eyes,
a smile too gentle for those he took,
as he walks so brisk
to meet the one who dies.

He's not cruel, hardly unkind,
but merely relentless, honor-bound.
And when you fear his passing, he does not mind,
but goes by in his silent task,
leaving in his wake not a shadow, not a sound.


2.
He's got a smoke colored trench
and far too young face.
Fair skinned hands,
unsuitable for his work.
He travels as he pleases,
comes and goes
through unkept yards
and closed doors,
striding past dirty alleys
and fine neighbourhoods.
And he doesn't ask for a permission,
nor will he apologize
(altho he looks at you with pity).
For he's only doing his job,
calling us to come home.