The Unnamed
Concealed in murkiness and gloom,
Cloaked by shadows of night,
Unknowingly hidden in the tomb,
The Shade prepares Its flight.
The list has been made,
Death is coming soon!
No longer delayed,
Time to give boon.
The time has arrived,
The chains finally shattered.
Now for all It had strived
It could do what had mattered.
At last freedom to the Ghost,
Under the blood-red moon.
He can finally fulfill His boast.
But He only has until noon.
The Specter goes to do the deed,
She does it without fail.
The Wraith listens to no plead,
She does it through many a wail.
In the morn some people wake,
Many will never again rise.
But life They may have to take.
The phantoms claim Their prize.
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schnoseb
Benjamin P.S. is a being of immense integrity, habitually semi-boisterous, sans ostentatiousness, and sibling to seven. He is skilled in the art of art, melodic and harmonious in music. Seldom garrulous; it is somewhat a rarity for this bizarre being to be heard uttering anything auxiliary a grunt. This individual has a great extent of outlandish schemes being administrated in his psyche; but you only see the translucent structure, you encompass a diminutive amount of his true form- only some is illuminated within your perception.
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