T he Soul-Harvester
There sits the Grim Reaper,
Atop a skeletal horse with a flaming mane,
In the colossal field of souls,
His head like that of a zombie,
His eyes sockets of flame,
His hooded cloak woven out of smoke,
His movements more graceful than that of a ghost,
His scythe as sharp as the tone of his booming voice.
The field of souls,
Full of crops,
each one representing a soul,
Pale and shimmering in the light of the moon,
Some ready to harvest,
Others not so much,
The only 'person' able to tell,
Is the dreaded Grim Reaper,
Who leaves behind a trail reeking of death.