Raven flying
through the still of night,
plumes of death rise
from the crimson-painted ground.
We'll all die,
say the stars shining bright,
gleaming coldly,
watching as evil tries
to make us bite the hands
of those who have helped us
and some answer its call,
they heed.
Though all was lost
and hope had faded,
some continued to try,
and perhaps
that's why now,
they fall.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of Death
Poetry"You kept saying that you would never die, that you would live forever. But here you are, and here I am. Isn't it funny? I'm here to take your soul. Did I mention, I love my job? Oh right! I never told you. I'm the reaper who will reap your life." B...
