Rage perching on death itself,
In the form of a dragon,
Its eyes full of lost passion,
Pushed into insanity by something dark.
As mist cages the beast it is transformed,
Back into the one that has no mercy,
Waiting for the time,
Then taking what he believes to be his.
Carrying a scythe and walking fast,
Wearing a cloak made from the skin of the damned,
Taking a turn and raising what he holds like a staff,
Slicing the air and energy flows,
Separating soul from flesh,
Raising what should be alive into the depths of silence.
