When the reaper comes,
the cold, dark shroud follows.
His skeleton covered by a robe of night,
a sickle in his tight grip,
his gruesomeness is easily noticed,
the putrid smell of the undead reeking off him,
his voice gasping through a toothless grin.
A bony hand reaches out,
the blood freezing in your veins.
When you feel his joints cracking against your skin,
you know what has been the fate of millions
has just been bestowed upon you.
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