Reaper

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
something about death himself.

Submitted: April 25, 2016

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Submitted: April 25, 2016

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Reaper

 

His lancing blade, sought its next victim.

The choice had been made. 

His mind lead him to the chosen one.

Death held no mystery to him.

Born from fate and truth was he.

No face had he.

None to compare thee by.

Silence was his tone.

He cried naught for his crimes.

For his cause was just.

 

His name?

Who knows?

That tall cloaked form.

Has nothing to his own but time.

If he appeared to thee,

Thy would be his.

His soldiers of shadows,

Would thrive off thy presence.

To him we are only raindrops.

Tears cannot be meaningful.

In his profession.  Not now.

An infringement hath been made.

 

Through misjudgements of the high,

The ghostly one became.

His whispering shadow,

Now echoes his wrath.

His silhouette bays. 

Today he hits our streets.

Given still the task.

Christened our killer.

The Reaper.

 

Each day a corpse.

Every time no witness.

Silent statement claims.

Blind eyewitness see.

Dark figment of man.

Dispersed from sin.

In the oblivion of the night.

For Reapers only reap,

At moments of blackness.

Nothing to stop it.

That infernal calling card,

Of the obsolete.

 

 

 

The last and only,

To have his job.

An unknown member,

Of the dead.

Fallen off,

The roof of Hell.

With reverse cross,

And block.

Strapped tightly,

Upon his back.

That grimmest of All,

THE GRIM REAPER…

 

NOW ENDETH.

NEMA! AMEN!

 

 


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