The day grows raspy,
And I ride atop my iron steed,
Pale in its sheen,
A frame wrenched from cemetery gates,
Wheels grinding through the ash,
Over dale and alpine,

You find yourself a spectator,
The sun creeps through my visor,
Highlighting my face,
You look aghast,
And see naught but a skull,
Grinning at the scene we play,

They tell of me,
Hushed tones and cupped hands,
I’m the goodbye man,
Once I’ve left,
Into the fog post-haste,
There isn’t anything but silence and grave dirt.


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