Cold, slicing metal, clanging loudly.
Brown, tan weeds falling to his feet.
He steps heavily on cracked earth.
Dust billowing behind.

Earth, a peaceful resting place
For those falling in his path,
Lying motionless, moving only in wind,
Waiting to be brought home.

Shriveling, cool air brings grief,
Moments of doubt, sorrow, yet life,
Filling hearts of mourning with hope,
Where he left none.

He is as heartless as his scythe
Striking down the living,
Leaving few souls to mourn loss.
Heavy hearts hollow out into their tears.

This being, this creature, this manic soul,
Severing stems of sweet silence
Into screams and shrieks of solitude.
When he departs, there is no more.