A Silent Sleeping

The silent sleeping,
a soul still weeping,
the people gather
for the final reaping.

A breath of wind sweeps
down from the heavens,
a crimson blanket
rests softly on the horizon.

As the pious pray,
and the faithless sulk.
The noose hung taught,
the drums do play.

The reaper himself,
silently plotting,
oh joyous was he
as the bodies lay rotting.

One to the pile,
as the line makes no end,
the guilty lay sleeping
the innocent trot neatly.

The illusion is cast,
that these people of crime
have done such a wonder,
that they must be strung.

Eyes to the stage
as this butchery starts,
the body a fit,
the eyes project.

When the act is complete,
the assembly gawk,
not a single dry cheek,
or quivering lip.

As the hooded ghost
cuts down the rope,
the bodies fall,
he begins to choke.

Call it justice if you believe,
for vengeance is what it is to me,
for the reaper was waiting,
and now he stands pleased.

The people gather,
for the final reaping.
A soul still weeping,
Then the silent sleeping...