A whirl of silver,
A flash of light,
I close my eye in the despair of night.
It flashes bright, a crimson flash,
Bright as polished glass.
There he stands,
Death himself.
A skull like face,
As white as snow,
Wicked as hell,
He turns and grins,
That awful grin,
And I know he enjoys his win.
YOU ARE READING
Beside You He Walks
PoetryWhen I write, I feel like a wolf, Howling to the moon. When someone reads, I feel like they too, Are a wolf, howling to the moon. And although we are world's apart, We are together still-- A pack of wolves, Howling to the moon.
