• A rope his noose,
    Alife turned loose
    To death's hands.
    His soul to the reaper.
    The demon's keeper.
    The glass so cold,
    The stories told,
    The souls they sould.
    The razor's sharp,
    The blood drips fast
    To cure the pain
    Of memories past.
    The blade cut's deep,
    The pain he nneds
    The glass he uses
    To do the deed.


    ~Aimee 11/12/08`