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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s