The Cronus
The Cronus prowls the darkened glade,
in pitch black robe of sackcloth made.
He foretells of eternal night,
and seeks to wield death's heinous blade.
From shadow he haunts woods and path,
dispensing of time's final math.
Frail souls evade his obscure realms,
they fear to meet his scythe's fierce wrath.
The Reaper's ghastly harvest knife,
sharp-honed, grim-edged, creating strife.
Oh, save us from his shadowed land
and from his dreaded afterlife.
Faint memory of morning light,
which salves our souls and makes life bright.
Protect us us from such mortal plight
safeguard us through both day and night.
The Cronus
10-10-14
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