He who wields the scythe
Stalks the shadows of life,
Awaiting the impending massacre.
Raining blood in this future,
The wicked twist of screams
Rips reality at the seams
Until silence grips the throats.
Sent over Styx on private boats,
The condemned warriors of Death
Follow his every breath,
Continue this dismal cycle,
He stalks the shadows with a smile.
The fields freshly painted crimson,
Decorated with bodies and garnished with sin,
Battlefields ensnare the globe,
Everything under the gloom of his robe
Until completely engulfed by shadow.
The world now his to freely go,
A planet of the deceased,
Death enjoys his feast.
No comments:
Post a Comment