Grim Reaper

A story in short of anger put to a solid mass, called the devil . . .
Shadows come, from the sky;
Grim is here;
A glow in his eye;
He points down a narrow path;
With anger and true rathe;
For me to wonder for the rest of time;
Even though I commit no crime;
I lift my head with pain on my shoulders;
As I walk to the land of black and horrible sounds of beholders;

The scythe slashes "Crash" down;
Cutting my soul into the ground;
Anger explodes through my veins;
And now with death no one has anything to gain;
Only me, with pain;
Sorrow rush through my body;
As evil comes near and haunts me;
Humanity looks at me;
As god; of deep beneath.

By Marina McPeak
Published: 4/26/2006 		Your Contributions: Tell us a Poem! You don't have to be a Buzzle.com author to contribute to Poetry Bee. Submit a poem of your own right now!
 
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