The cold hand of death

It's a morbid poem. I've never done one before. All of mine have been about love.

A lonely, withered old man
spends his nights clinging to his wife's picture
awaiting the cold touch of death
to come and collect another soul.
Tears fill his darkened eyes,
as he feels his time draw near.
One night he decided to give up
and let death take him
so he can join his wife in the afterlife.
He felt the last bit of warmth disappear
and in its place stood cold.
Now the last his family will ever see of him,
is a wooden box being lowered,
six feet into the ground.