Under the moon, the trees quietly move
Disguised by the chilling air
In the light of the dark
A dissection of a forest
With the galloping black horse
Ripping the dead rider on twigs
His black cloke flapping
In the midnight wind
Releasing living dead souls
In the damp air. Echoed, the beating hooves
The sense of hatred fills my nose,
In the death cold silence
Thicker trees cutting into skin
Trying to stop the movement
Black blood running from his empty eye socket
From a passing, selfish, grabbing, furious, wooden hands
Trickling down a bare patch
Of burnt bone and infected rotting, flesh residues
Which used to belong to a face
Leaving the black, soulless ball behind
For a delicious sweet for a stomach
Slashed to pieces, but he is still alive
Death will not give up
He is coming for me!
Ready or not, being able to torturing me slowly