Skull, the Helldresser

 
In a twilight salon
where shadows fall.
Death awaits
the hairdresser for the ball.
With scissors sharp
and combs of bone.
He whispers softly
“You’re not alone.”

His touch is gentle
his gaze serene.
A master of the unseen.
Locks of life he trims with care.
Preparing you for the grand affair.

“Tonight,” he says  
“you’ll shine so bright
a star amidst the velvet night.”
With every snip a memory fades.
Yet beauty in the mirror stays.

He builds a crown of silver threads.
A halo for your weary head.
No fear, no tears, just a calm embrace,
as he perfects all final grace.

The clock strikes twelve
the moment near.
You rise, adorned, without a tear.
For Death, the hairdresser, knows it all
and guides you gently to the fall.