Suffrage of the Reaper

An untitled work of crescendos
Lining our future, lining our past
The Reaper's scythe digs into the ground
And there it lays without a sound

Agony spreading across our land
Created by those
With non-de-plumes
They lurk behind doors
And hide behind masks
Their cannibalism utters nothing

Bitter irony to those they betray
The sins that pillage the earth in their wake
Blood & limbs of those with vengeance
Will never feel the same

When it disappears
Prey remove their veneers
And frolic, trapped in falsity
Blinded of the bars that surround them
Blinded of the plague that has never ceased to spread

Nails digging into flesh
They pray to the Gods with their
Last breaths

Surveyed by the shadows
of Satan's reign

A grin, a smirk, to all their pain
A chuckle at discord, a clap for disdain

And the Reaper stands by
Without a say
Not a word for hate
Or a choice for disarray
Oh the Reaper
Exhausted as be
He can never sleep
He must never sleep.