Move o'er me flash of gray,
Swiftly
along the crumbling sidewalks,
like a reaper, bony hands extended
deftly plucking gullible souls,
from dark corners and back-alleys,
the watchful ones,
will be the last to fall,
O' scythe, pass over me,
even as the blood of innocents
drips in my cup,
travel further towards the
gathering storm, cleanse your blade
in the great flood,
"I am king!" Or so I said,
but that pretence is gone now,
replaced with icy dread,
and the choice is clear,
no prince can become a pauper,
but one can reign in the
fires of hell.
I'm a fan of this one, dark and dreadful (in a good way). Liked the "O'scythe pass over me", would have been tempted by "O'scythe pass o'er me" since you're going for an old style of English (your first line is o'er). Very nicely done!
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