I'm cold

I'm cold, the world is going through changes that I cannot control. My eyes grow dim as the bitter cold touch of death caresses my already chilled flesh. He stands at the bedside, not moving, not speaking, simply waiting patiently for my last breath. His boney fingers tracing the outline of my body through the bedsheets. I look up at him, his face expressionless, he has done this same job countless times throughout millennia,  But he remembers every name, every date, every last word, That's part of his never ending job. Thankless, Unappreciated, Feared, Loathed, His assignment is simple, Reap the souls of the dead. But who gives him comfort at the end of the day? Who thanks him for his mercy?