The Reaper

The Reaper’s boots trampled the road,
His black cloak behind him magically flowed
In the breeze like a dark angel’s wings,
Upon his hand he bore six scarlet rings;
One for each wife he had long since forgot
Each had once held his heart in a knot
And at times he remembered their final screams
As he ripped, bit and tore them apart at the seams,
He saw them through his devil’s eyes
As his look was drawn upwards to stare at the skies
That were reddening slowly under his gaze
And he found himself trapped in that desolate maze
Of his mind
That was broken
So he stopped all alone and looked at his token;
It was a shiny, metal gun and how it sparkled so clear,
Then he blew out his brains and got rid of his fear,
And the Reaper fell down on that lonesome old road
No more was the Reaper but still his blood showed
The sins of his past; the deaths of his wives
Their blood was still there, stained on the knives
In his cloak that he wore,
And the Reaper had sinned no more,
No more.

Poem by Alex Hodson

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