A bony hand reaches out, the skeleton searching for his soul,
As the reaper looks and laughs, accustomed to his role,
He rides a steed of crimson steel, a skull its engine block,
Using blood as his fuel, his music metal rock,
He looks for souls on which to feed,
As he survives on the living’s fear,
And though his ride has a thunderous roar,
As he approaches none can hear.
 
 
A sickle perches on his back, which he wields to sever heads,
While the souls which he seeks out, though alive are already dead,
His bony hands drip fresh blood, holding a head with vacant eyes,
Screaming out his immortal glee, as another lost heart dies,
He looks for souls on which to feed,
As he survives on the livings’s fear,
And though his ride has a thunderous roar,
As he approaches none can hear.
 
 
He rides in darkness every night, his appetite never filled,
His lifeless eyes can not see, yet there’s fire as his heart is killed,
Every time he takes a soul, his rides motor comes alive,
Tied to a heart that now is gone, yet his body’s death can not arrive,
He looks for souls on which to feed,
As he survives on the living’s fear,
And though his ride has a thunderous roar.
As he approaches no one hears.
 
 
In the future if you see, a dark shadow moving fast,
The night gives no protection, and half a soul can not last,
There’s no escaping from his grasp, and his touch is icy cold,
And if you see him look away, because death is who you behold,
He looks for souls on which to feed,
As he survives on the past’s living fears,
And though his ride has a thunderous roar,
As you approach, there’s no one left to hear.
        Half a soul.

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the living past

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