Bang

A Poem by Hallow

The horror beats my bones
Headfirst in sorrow's well.
A thundering of hooves
A single striking bell.

Dark blood congealed
On a forgotten floor.
Death should be darkness
Fear should be a moor.

In sun and neon lights;
On clear and breezy days,
The Reaper visits all
In a fuzzy kind of haze.

How does he handle it?
The influx of souls?
When one becomes many
With futures untold?

Tomorrow's unpromised.
Today might be it.
He may be in the corner
A cup of tea as he sits.

Rain or shine, dark or light.
Or simply gunpowder mist
We never know the weather
On the Reaper's list.