on a lonely road, a shadow stood

scythe in hand, concealed in a hood

then it marched, too briskly

i ran, it chased me

scythes emerged from the ground

diced my feet, like huge thorns on Jesus' "crown"

and it marched, not like before

somewhat slowly, its voice full of gore

"come, my dear, do not run

natural deaths are not for everyone"

suddenly, the road transformed

into a river, dragged my arms

suddenly, the river was blood

my blood, as scythes tore me apart

and it stopped, watching me

drown in the fear I spun