The Soul Collector haunts the night
To kill the living and the dead,
Severing arteries with a scythe
Reaching deep into people’s chests:
To grip a living, throbbing heart
Within his fearsome, ghostly hand,
To squeeze the life out of the living
Across the breadths of this foul land.
A scythe of ghostly ectoplasm
Can kill the spirits of the dead,
Ripping and rending their spirit bodies
Far worse than when life firstly fled.
A legend from the olden times
Carried down into the present,
The Soul Collector’s scythe will swing
Until all life is surely spent.
He stalks at night through lonely graveyards
Terrifying the ghostly tenants,
Scything the ectoplasmic bodies
Of spirits who offer no defence.
Nothing dares to breathe or move
For terror stalks this awful land,
The Soul Collector is a reaping
Neither dead nor living have a chance.
Legends say the Soul Collector
Was scything souls of Neanderthal Man,
Fifty-thousand years or more later
The Collector terrorises ‘cross this land.
© Copyright 2011
Philip Roberts, Melbourne, Australia
© Copyright 2016 Philip Roberts. All rights reserved.
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