Reaping of a Sorrowed Soul

Wed, 10/07/2015 - 23:01 -- ss14959

In a docile abode, sombre and sable,

A suitor courting Death awaits a troubled night.

The air is calm, but storm is hidden

Beneath the billows of silent slumber.

 

Harken to the wind, and words are witnessed,

All of which are sown by whom does sleep.

Utterances in lethargy from the lips they fall,

To rest on the curves of snooping ears.

 

Quietly, in sotto voce, the room disturbed.

Ablazen in the fiery hearth,

The embers dim to death.

Upon the bed of silken sheets he lies in wait.

 

The figure approaches,

Words of inky mellifluent spurting forth

From an abyss of wretched disturbances.

Diabolically awaiting the reaping of a sorrowed soul.

 

Weathered and wrinkled, the elder wakes.

The icy hand strokes his mask.

His form does gyrate, his hand in tremor.

Death has found the man of agen features.

 

Confronting the cold and the dark of the hour,

The patriarch leaps swift from rest.

Ebony night claims the forebearer,

Hyperborean night summons the begetter of age.

 

To the awaiting nighttide he treads,

Seeking to shun such a spector.

He howls in his hunt for freedom,

But his cries only echo in his own notice.

 

Searching for relief, his mind takes an ill turn.

Stopping dead in his tracks,

He turns to face Death, his pursuer.

Magister Mortem ensnares his volition.

 

To his slumber he returns,

Submission warps his will.

The shadowed figure, clad in robe,

Follows close at hand.

 

In the darkest hour of cimmerian night,

The ruination of nine years ten-fold.

Death finds Haeres Senectus

Uncared for, grovelling in onyx consternation.

 

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