• Blood drips from my boney finger tips,
    The copper smell singes my empty nostrils.
    A body made to kill,
    A mind wanting it.
    The sound of blood hitting the ground,
    The pure darkness of the moment,
    It fills my body with pleasure.
    A person who lies,
    A person who is evil,
    Deserves to die.
    That is why I take pleasure,
    In the dead stare of the eyes,
    The pale skin in the moon light,
    The copper smell of maroon across the floor,
    The limp muscles and tendons inside the body,
    The seeping gash across the neck.
    The dead that have lied,
    Deserve to die.
    Those that took from those that were innocent.
    Those that gain nothing but power from it.
    Those that do not believe I am here.
    My bone hands grasp my scythe,
    My black robe slides among the blood,
    Smearing the boney foot print I leave.
    My empty eye sockets look up at the moon.
    White from the sun that hides my soul.
    I wish the moon were red,
    Like the color of the dead’s blood,
    It seeps into everything I do,
    It has grown on me,
    The color of death.