Ian Wilkshire


For twas the reapers who left the marks,
twisted minds, wasted futures, darkened hearts,
he stepped towards them, and when he saw the face,
he knew his luck had deserted him, farewell human race.

They were outcasts, growing into isolation,
goodness was extracted from them,
the redness of the heart became black pain,
a rebble crop that went against the grain,

The reapers, who butcher victims to loan,
reminding people, men are merely flesh and bones.
much pain is to come for false hope earth,
but is born legacies, war heroes, warriors, through birth.

Topic(s) of this poem: horror

Poem Submitted: Sunday, April 6, 2014
Poem Edited: Monday, April 7, 2014

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