Scythe

Sycle, curving, slicing death,
Killed before you've drawn a breath,
As doom comes whistling towards you,
Your worst nightmare, it comes true,

The figure of death, in a hooded cloak,
through twilight, mists, and wispy smoke,
advances onwards, scythe held out,
he whirls it, twils it, round about,

Then swings and slices, shredding bone,
a single warrior, all alone,
takes one more step and slices through,
his arm is strong, his aim is true,
The dusty floor, is wet with blood,
A torrent of life, a river, a flood.