His Caress

When the night falls,
the cold, breathless rattle of the wind
and the thin, pale fingers of the trees
rake and scrape across the flesh, chillingly.

It is then when a hand steals silently,
stealthily over the land, searching.
Ever searching for souls of those whose time
are up.

The ever eager ebon fingers yearn.
They yearn for the souls of men.
Souls which are crushed in the firm, vice-grip of Lord Thoth.
Souls which shall never see the light of day,
forevermore.

He, who is impartial yet unyielding,
natural.
None shall he oversee and none shall from his grasp escape.
Not one evil Mhaldorian no a foolish Shallamite.

For every Beginning,
there must be an End.
For every Life,
there must be Death.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Ero, in the year 523 AF.