The Black Soldier Poem by Justin Chan

Those eyes of purest black,
Of fire, there's no lack.
That face, that hard, hard face,
Regardless of his race.

His hand that wields a sword,
Like rivers with no ford.
A black heart with no soul,
In darkness' evil fold.

A monster in the field,
Of blood and bones surreal.
His steed of blackest night,
Calls out to come and fight.

The horse of black he rides,
Relentless as the tides.
Those people that he kills,
His bloodlust never fails.

His beard, a blood-soaked beard,
The screams of dying heard.
Those bucketfuls of blood,
Spilt as to a flood.

All men, they were his foes,
He killed them with no woes.
Instead, he laughed aloud,
As if there was a crowd.

His sword of black so dark,
That always finds its mark.
Ebony-armored him,
It's only sink or swim.

Oh, who can this man be?
For once only we see.
He with the dark black wreath,
The man himself is Death.