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