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The river of the dead showers me with despair,
With my scythe in my hand,
I am always prepared,
The sounds of bone cracking as my hands grip tightly,
The form of my body is very unsightly,
The history of death is carved into the stone,
The dry cold bones stacked highly as my throne,
They were taken from the light,
And dragged into the dark,
There tombstones were labled,
Just left as a mark,
Humans are ignorant,
They can have faith in something,
But I know there is nothing good that book could ever bring,
They can have a heart,
They can have a soul,
It can be torn apart,
It can be sold,
So I stay in this place,
Because this is where I thrive,
Not a care in the world,
Glad not to be alive.

This poem is Copyright © Senates