Weekly poem #4

Weekly poem

Evil

He grips his mace
with both his hands
destroying grace
in all the lands.
He kills us all
with blood so cold,
he stands not tall,
for myths are told.
With wind and rain,
we'll make him pay
for those all slain
on this sad, sad day.
We know him not,
for he shows no face
and with rage so hot,
leaves deafening trace.
With the deaths so high,
and conscience so low,
he is not nigh
to the places he’ll go.
from hell he comes,
we’re sure of that
and with broken thumbs
has never sat,
to rest, my friend,
for he needs none.
He will not stop,
when day is done.
he's out there now
and must be stopped
you ask us how
he can be topped.
Afraid, he saw
that much is certain,
when death will draw
the final curtain.
I don’t know how,
you wish to save
there's no hope now
from his echoing rage.
He does not stop
until he’s dead
with the mace atop
his dreadful head.
I tell you now,
so heed my warning
I will die for thou
on this great morning.