The Grim Cry
Another day—another death takes hold.The Reaper moves on, silent and cold.
With one fell swoop, his scythe finds its mark,A neutral figure moving through the dark.
Tonight, he wore the shape of a man,And took down a pitchman, just as planned.
He knew him well—of good but twisted deeds,Truth tangled in lies, cut down like weeds.
The sun arose; the Reaper does not sleep.Another soul gone, the tally steep.
A woman, bold—rose up to CEO,The cloaked one came; it was her time to go.
An innocent child grew deathly pale,And swiftly the Reaper tipped life’s scale.
A man sobbed as his wife was swept away—Sixty years of love, gone in a day.
A plane fell fast, smoke streaking the sky—The Reaper's ledger echoed with goodbye.
A suicide bomber stood on deadly ground,He marked that name without a sound.
The world grew darker, headlines bled,And the Reaper paused… bowed his head.
Just this once—beneath the weight and hue...The Grim Reaper, quietly… cried too.
Want to pair this with a visual poem layout or develop a companion piece like Mercy at Midnight or The Watcher’s Lament
Copyright © Erin Werner | Year Posted 2009
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