Stooped low upon a lofty throne,
A necromantic monarch,
Shrieks in fury,
Such undying hatred washes over his bones,
The azure moon calms him not one drop,
The living remain alive,
And the dead remain below.

With an incensed scream,
He calls upon his legions,
Rotting knights and fetid footmen,
Shadowy beasts and mad spirits,
Rusted iron and filthy nails,
Anguished moans and eerie corpse-lights,
Driven onward by their dead liege.

Compelled by a rage that never dies,
The dead legions advance,
Marching under the moon,
Fracturing defenses under the moon,
Slaughtering innocents under the moon,
The dead are now unrivaled,
And the living are no more.

A decomposing monarch has his victory,
The nefarious King of Scythes,
Do you hear him coming for you?

King

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Comments
  1. Nice poem. I really like the description, it holds a visual quality in my own mind. I have a pretty vivid imagination myself, but when imagery can be conveyed well in any medium of story telling, it is always a plus.

    Keep up the great work!

    Cheers! ^_^

  2. […] King Of Scythes The undead are a staple of Halloween. This is a poem about the monarch of the mortuary, the lord of the underworld, the king of the dead. Ghosts, skeletons and ghouls, oh my! […]

  3. Osharlequin says:

    Reblogged this on WorldofHarley and commented:

    King of Scythes

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