April 13, 2020

A figure in black

Loiters in shadows,

Vile and hated

He buffs his saddle.

Legions of limbs,

Stockpiled skulls,

See him grinning

Like the ghoul he is.

Buckets of blood,

Torrents of tears,

His calling card strewn

Across the sphere.

Syringes collected,

Masks defiled

He uses his scythe

To stir up the pyre.

Guns were cocked

Ammo was spent,

The damage done

Only to the dead.

Sobbing souls

Form his soundtrack,

Repeat and shuffle

Until the son rises.

Awaiting a king,

He whistles low,

From above or below,

He'll be ready to bow.