Poetry by Rowan Evans

They call me…
The whisper that slithers through the cracks,
A shadow that lingers where the light turns black.
A twisted reflection in a crimson haze,
A monster unchained, lost in the maze.

They call me…
An infection, a curse, a waking dread,
A symphony of screams where angels have bled.
Your worst nightmare—personified,
You can run, you can beg, but you cannot hide.

When the darkness rides, it demands a toll,
A debt in flesh, the price of your soul.
Turn your body into a canvas so raw,
Carve my masterpiece, my unholy law.

You bring pain—I bring carnage,
A blade to your throat is my language.
I am rage, pure and untamed,
A beast unleashed, unchained, unnamed.

They call me…
The reaper’s breath upon your skin,
A game of death you’ll never win.
The architect of your final sigh,
The last thing you’ll see before you die.

They call me… Death.