How the peoples call me the Grim Reaper,

How all the people flinch at my namesake,

Death.

Doth ye still believe I am not your life’s keeper?

Upon green and gold fields I gaze,

Regretfully wielding my burden.

I am Grim,

 because of the scythe bestowed to me to raise.

Tattered black shadows clothe me to the bone,

Leaving me cold as thou art in winter.

I shiver,

For ye in the grave are as I am alone.

Other angels carry ye to your heaven or hell,

Whilst I sorrowfully reap ye from budding fields.

I am Autumn,

Drifting your leaves down Earth’s dark well.

How the peoples call me the Grim Reaper,

How I flinch at the thought of taking what ye hold dear.

I wait,

For the time when ye understand me as your life’s keeper.