“Cold, cold,”
the shadows whisper from the alleys.
As the days grow short and the nights live on,
the figure emerges from the darkness.
Step by step she walks away
from the body disposed on the ground.
Blood drips with every echo
from her hands that have slain a thousand.
The shadows creep away from the killer,
afraid, afraid.
The darkness hides the moon,
shielding its pureness from this atrocity.
Stars shine up and far,
watching over heartlessly,
they care not for those that have gone
to whatever lies beyond.
For why would they love mere mortals,
mere mortals with hearts
who love and cry, and fear
the killer that roams the night.
“Cold, cold.”
The little creatures run as she nears.
They used to rule this time,
when the humans are in slumber,
but now,
but now,
but now…
The queen of the night, the empress of murder,
she pulls her gloves off, throws them away.
Without a care, she walks through the shadows,
no fear, no fear.
Warmth has never touched her heart.
The killer's never had one,
she was born this way,
throttled her father, threw her father.
He deserved what he got.
“Cold, cold,”
she hums as she stabs.
Blood splatters over her masked face.
She doesn't smile, she doesn't show
any emotion,
she's cold.
Screams echo in the dark,
and she covers their mouth idly.
Soon, soon,
there'll be no one left.
Soon,
she'll grow tired of this game.
Soon, soon,
someone will stop her.
But now,
The curtain draws close.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of Death
Poetry"You kept saying that you would never die, that you would live forever. But here you are, and here I am. Isn't it funny? I'm here to take your soul. Did I mention, I love my job? Oh right! I never told you. I'm the reaper who will reap your life." B...
