The Boy with the Scythe
The boy with the scythe
Shining wickedly on a hot summers' night
Like sterling silver on a young woman's breast
A delicate rope, beautiful with russet gold woven strands
Hangs between two slim shoulder blades
Large amethyst windows gaze softly in the darkness
And skin the color of cream
A laugh like a child's and yet
A belying façade to his customers
A swing of the blade
And a cold-breathed scream
Silver ices through soft flesh
And blood splatter's upon the ground
But never on the black silk
Clothing this little reaper
Another bounty to take as crimson rises down to the sewers below
The streets part as he stalks through
With the grace of a panther
And the air of a demon
People reek of fear
Yet not daring to ask his name, of course
Nor listening to his words:
I'm not evil
I' just misunderstood