Harvest Time

It has been said long ago
Tales of the ancient
That when falling leaves
In fall do come
Wake will horror be
Incarnate in the scytheman

The impending death
Of nature swims
in awry cascades
blown by wind un-merciless
Little leaves leave their branch
For the earth below

Thus mortal too leave
for the sods below
as fly in the harvesters
cutting down souls
from terrified hearts
leaving chagrined corpses

Scytheman flies in twos and threes
Some they laugh with wicked glee
Others silent, as grim can be
If you hear the banshee cackle
Or the midnight spectre scream
Go you under the cover

When done they are
By the morning mist
They leave the mortal land
Gossamer figures
Vanishing into realms
that only they discern

Morn bring forth
The anguished groans
Screams of horror
At death’s skill
Pass they do
the threshold of winter.