The Reaper

Somewhere high above the clouds,
Sits a lost and lonely soul,
Only his crows converse with him,
As they pick upon his bones.
They search the world for sorrow,
That crawls on its last legs,
Then sing their psalms unto the Master,
Who reaps another harvest.

No longer worshiped by his minions,
He still holds a certain fear,
His skeletal form, clad in black,
Is seldom seen, nor heard,
Except upon a dying breath,
Like the cackle of a crow,
As the gentle breeze of sweeping scythe,
Reaps another soul.

No tears are shed of mourning,
From his eyeless, bony skull,
That pain is left to mortals,
Who wander through life, still,
Ignorant and faithless,
They know not of his deeds,
As he reaps his harvest,
From Mother Nature's seeds.

So worship him, the Master,
The harvester of souls,
He'll ferry you across the stars,
Unto another world,
Be it Heaven, be it Hell,
Be it what you believe,
But remember that you are mortal,
Your soul is His to reap.