Through the forest of trees,
That sway in the wind,
Gentle but deadly,
Not a whimper was heard,
From the dead hanging in the branchs.
A scythe hacks at the bark,
And the body falls,
Crashing to the ground,
Creating a spatter of blood,
A grim smile emerges from what the ghostly figure has done.
The fire in its eyes as the light dies away,
For wings have expanded,
High into the air,
The cloak turns to scales,
A beast it has become.
