Black cloak billowing in the wind,

Boned feet clicking rapidly against the stone,

The being of neither good,

Nor evil,

Flees across the land.

In pursuit

Flies five rabid beasts of fear,

Each foaming white at the mouth,

Howling curses against his soul.

The rocky terrain changes,

The ground turns soft and warm,

The pursuit hastens,

The fugitive gasping for air

Refuses to halt.

He gazes about

Yearning for the sight

Of the place of his destiny

Where fate lies in wait.

In the distant sun

Across miles of ashen sand

A green emerald glimmers in the muck

The victim of seething hate smiles.

He swings his polished scythe

Out from underneath his ebony covering .

The demons of naivety close the distance.

This chase of misunderstanding,

Of clouded visages

And closed minds and hearts,

Drags on.

The six figures flying through the air,

Never touching the desert below.

At long last,

When the moon is high

Illuminating the land in pale yellow,

An oasis of green sprouts from the barren sand.

Death halts in the meadow,

Turning his body to face the beasts.

His billowing cloak begins to morph,

As the personification of fear

Takes on every hue

Vision

And idea of the mask of death.

He is a skeleton,

A decrepit man,

The angel of black and crimson,

A vampire,

Satan,

He is everything and nothing at once.

In the same way,

The beasts of pursuit undertake

A metamorphosis,

Their four legs fuse into two,

The mahogany fur covering

Softens to calloused flesh.

Their faces twist and scrunch

From the canine mask of hatred

To the feline features of humans.

Thus they stand,

Death in all his visages,

Our fearful hatred

Naked and glistening.

Two step forward,

A demon of red

An angel of pearly white,

Both hold daggers in hand,

Their faces stretched with smiles,

Shadowing the laughter of the other three wraiths.

Good and evil joined hands,

Joined forces,

Stepping forward to vanquish the foe.

Death,

The only being of neutrality,

Caring neither for good nor ill,

Took his glistening scythe in hand,

Its curved blade cradled his throat.

A steady stream of crimson

Dyed the grass with blood.

The victim of our fear,

Fell to the ground below,

Laughing as he went,

Asking the wraiths of woe

If their would be a death awaiting his soul.

It was there they left him,

-In the meadow surrounded by desert-

Death, our friend our foe,

Dead as dead can be.