He sits at his table,
his fangs dripping blood,
his eyes blood red,
he plays the game of fate
He says to himself
It’s time for dinner,
I’ll take the blond one…
No, the red head
He stretches his black claws
to touch the faces in pale glass.
Shout of pain rises like smoke,
the blond face disappears.
He laughs, the sound of his laughter
cuts through the silence of the night.
In the pale glass,
the old say to him
“Let me go in style I pray thee”
The young cry to him
“Tarry a little while”
No one can touch him
for he is the ultimate finality –
He is DEATH and he would have his dinner.
WRITE TO LIVE 
Though dark, there is beauty of composed words and an inevitable truth, this poem possesses. I sense you euphemised the title and in it I find originality.
Thanks for sharing, Fikayo.
Thank you for reading Uzoma.