Reaper

A short experimental poem.

Crying crows tear the silence of the battlefield below, 

two opposing sides marching toward each other. 

Marching into the unknown, men women big and small all connected by on emotion: fear. 

Wondering whether they will ever see their loved ones again. 

Even if they did will they accept that they have killed others? 

Killed the precious children of worrisome mothers? 

Swords brandished marching towards the unknown. 

Boots crushing dirt and sand beneath them, 

the crows crowing waiting for carnage to begin. 

Their crows whether diabolical or sympathetic no one knows. 

Far above this all sat upon the moon a small figure with excitement and watchful eyes observed. 

There it sat in a blood red robe it was clad, 

its pearl white hair covered by a hood. 

As the first swords crossed it quickly stood. 

As soldiers fell their faded images appearing behind it for it had come to claim the souls they long did sell.