The Shadowman

A Poem by Peter Schal

A new poem... :)

Dark is his spirit that trails across the floor,
His silhouette filling the open door,
The glint of steal in his right hand,
The absence of life is at his command.

He walks forward, his boots a monotonous bump,
His beating heart bleeds wrath within every thump,
His intrument drawn from the leather-skin sheath,
He senses your fears and worries underneath.

Oh, no! he has arrived! To take what was given by God! A life!
Quickly, we crouch away from him, but his senses are sharp,
He overturns the tables like a rain-dazzled tarp,
Stamping and grinning, a madman is he,
Slicing the air with an insane alien glee.

We cower away, but lo! he has found,
And with his smooth, sharp tool he rips our skin to the ground.
We cry out loud, Lord save us all!

But the shadowed man, he slit our throats, and that is all.