A hooded man with a scythe.
The face of death, an image of death.
Black as the night, feathers of crows.
Black as jet, dripping down ink.
Trapped in cement, wood or air.
House, they say.
Shelter, they say.
Safe, they say.
Heaven, they say.
Yet demons slither in,
Eyes red as ruby,
Tongue sharp as words,
Hands of cold corpse,
Cold winds and searing pains.
Windows that were once so wide,
Shrinks and dissipates,
Into nothing but a cell,
Blocking and stopping,
Whatever it wishes.
For what is this all?
A distant roar of uprisals,
A distant roll of waves,
But too distant,
Too far,
How long is this all?
Come forth uprisals.
Come forth,
Waves.
