On a wet and gloomy morning, on the cold darkened eve. There comes a lurking figure, who by the darkness refused to leave. He wore but a blackened robe, almost grey to the age; but any familiar with this tale knew he'd be the last to touch the worlds endless page.
Onward through the centuries, his face would appear again. Some would deny his existence, others would claim he was slain. But no mortal weapon can deny him his birthright, his place among the stars.No vastness of locks can contain him; no matter the number of bars.
He sweeps and cuts through the air, he shifts through the night. He walks plainly among living, during the evening's fading light. So watch for the shadows, and watch where they may fall. Listen to the wind's blow, listen for his deathly call.
Some say he calls your name, others say he simply strikes. But in the end does it matter? All our souls find a place upon his eerie, deathly pikes.
I'll be frankly honest. I've not the slightest clue on how the structure of moulding of a rhyme ought to be followed. Nor what defines a poem. With that in mind, cheers. Always nice to hear someone likes one of my ' one o'clock in the morning' writings. Cheers again.