A figure stands up from his latest kill,

Washing the blood off its hands,

But it wants to hunt still,

Wants to hear its victims scream.

No one can stop him,

There is no use,

It caters to its every whim,

And kills those who resist.

It feeds off your pain,

And uses it against you,

It gets into your brain,

And controls you from within.

And when it's had enough fun,

It kills you slowly or swiftly,

It doesn't matter; it has won,

Your death one of many.

Even after all it's killed,

It hunts for more,

Its lust for death unfulfilled,

So onward it walks for all eternity.

What haunts us all,

What fallows us to our grave,

Is what we call,

The Angel of Death.

~Jolyn