Ghostly

Ghostly sheets, draped across,
branches, barren of leaves.
Haunting sounds of pest,
slowly moving bye.

When the Moon arose,
full in the Southern sky,
I will know the reason,
God wants you to die.

Fair and just? Not for me,
and wonder why,
other humans, in this world,
seldom question life's end.

Why do good people,
die too soon,
when other nasty people,
continue to carry on. Tell me why.