The Shadow’s Lament

In the still of night, Death silently treads,

Clasping an apple from Peru, ominous and dread.

His blade gleams under the moon’s pallid glow,

Striking chords of fate on the harp, slow.


He hunts with a purpose, his shadow cold and true,

Promising the chill of the Asiatic flu.

Cloaked in the darkest shades of the night,

He summons his pack, creatures of fright.


Ghouls and demons, once free men they say,

Now roam as specters, in eternal dismay.

Skulls that leer with a sinister, ghastly flair,

Resembling cherries bloodied, in the night air.


“You are now mine,” he whispers, a foreboding creed,

As the spectral contagion begins to proceed.

It spreads through your being, a dance macabre so steady,

Whispering ‘Mahdi’ as you face the abyss, ready.

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