The Boy with the Scythe
The Boy with the Scythe
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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 class=GramE>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