Stephen Beam


I The Reaper... - Poem by Stephen Beam

Voices whisper on the salty air of this seaside port,
giving way to the demented voices in my own head
the old, yet familiar feeling of rage and lust courses and grows,
leading to where my heart last bled
The corrupted, damned and lost flock to her quarters very doors,
for a piece of her warm welcoming flesh
hell may have no wrath like this jilted whore,
but she kills and eat's her client's, leaving them soulless
Visions of the blood from my now scarred chest and
pelvis on her excited body and the knife in her hand
fill my head as i dawn what's become my uniform for this duty of killing hell's perversion's in this land

The voice in my head became a scream of pleasure and despair,
filling me with peaceful rage
as the power flows and ebbs through my very flesh into the sailor's hook held in my hand going away from it's cage
The voice rasps and grates my veins with, ' grip this hook like you did that bible and i'll guide you
to that very heart hidden beneath that whore's soiled and impregnated flesh and give her what's due.'

My human counterpart knows i'm on a highway to hell, yet i still walk this cobbled street a sickness
to satan's daughters, a vengeful angel with one goal to rid these seaside ports of these hexed witness'
To my lustful rage, follow my path and you'll find many more bloodied streets and cemetaries
other's after me will lay a design to my very crimes, cause what i do is for my own sadistic means
I knock on her back door, asking to come in, there's hesitation in her voice as she summons me
although she's skin and bones, her belly is filled with souls of the past, she pulls back with what she sees

The voice in my head screams of pleasure and despair,
filling me with peaceful rage
as the power flows and ebbs through my very flesh into the sailor's hook held in my hand away going from it's cage
The voice rasps and grates my veins with, ' grip this hook like you did that bible and i'll guide you
to that very heart hidden beneath that whore's soiled and impregnated flesh and give her what's due.'

Her heart beats through the vericose veins lacing her arms, they leap as my cold, damp hand touches
her very soul, drawing out a word from the forked tongue and throat of hollands own damned dutchess
'You may have me in your clutches, jack. But, hell itself hold's a place especially for you. Kill me
and you'll walk the the earth and the netherworlds cursed as the deathkeeper reaping souls grimly.'
As the winch spoke i heard bells tolling from the rundown and dilapidated church from across town
'there's the bells of hell ringing to take your very soulless body to hell, so kill me now'

I did the deed, yet i felt no different even after the bells quit their tolling, stepping outside the salty air
it was filled with the smell of brimstone and the ground beneath my boots became too hot to bear
The voice in my head became reality as the bearer to that strange, yet welcoming twang
stepped through the gathering mist shook my hand and said, ' welcome to my domain
Jack, this is hell and i'm the master, the man of many different names, but you can call me Death.
you are hell's first son known now as Grim, you'll reap souls with this scythe and your very breath.'

This is how I jack The Ripper became the Grim Reaper.

(written on July 27,2006)


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 15, 2008



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