A phantom of the night.

A heart as frigid as snow
What a cruel brute he is,
Without leaving even the slightest bit of mercy
For the poor souls of his dirty mendacity.

He’s a wicked whisper in the wind.
Branding the unfortunate with his murderous marks.
Terrorizing each city; leaving them more and more abolished than the last.
Fleeing from the vicious truth
No haven, no asylum to retreat to.

No vulnerability to slay him.
The melody of screams in agony
Cadaverous corpses littering the streets
Famished faces praying for the nauseating game to end.
Constant reminders that their cities were being massacred,
And there was nothing they could possibly do to fight back.

Yet, everything comes with a closure.
Bird masks inhabiting museums
Endless passages in remembrance of the shameful event
Shivers running up children’s spines while listening to the fate of their ancestors
Education to warn the young and naive, to never let the felon named “Black Death” kill again.