THE REAPER

Angel of mercy,
blessed relief,
the ending of glory?

The dried blood of the masses
gives my robe the appearance of black
that casts shadows of fear in the heart.

Decay, rotting flesh
and newly turned earth,
the smell of death.

Fingers of bone
long pointed nails
dripping with freshly drawn blood.

Silently taking life.
All struggling
stops
as my scythe
finishes
the strike.

The hairs of the neck rise,
causing shivers of fear
that shoot down the spine.

Not even the sun
can keep me away
For ALL, I come.