• Grim Words

    Blood drips from my bony finger tips,
    The copper smell singes my empty nostrils.
    My body is made to kill,
    My mind wants it.
    The sound of blood hitting the ground,
    The windless air that sticks to my robe,
    The pure lifeless scene before me,
    It fills my body with pleasure.
    Those that I send to hell,
    Deserve to go.
    This is why I take pleasure,
    In the dead stare of their eyes,
    Their pale skin that glows in the moon light,
    The copper smell of the maroon liquid across the floor,
    The limp muscles and tendons inside their bodies,
    The seeping gash across their necks.
    My bone hands grasp my scythe,
    And I move my skinless legs away.
    My black robe slides among the blood,
    Smearing the boney foot prints I leave.
    My empty ears listen to the souls,
    They howl and scream as they travel,
    Down to hell.
    It gives me pleasure.