There is a phantom man
With a crimson hand,
Breathes the chill of doom,
And carries a bag
Shaped like the crescent moon.

The living never feel the bite of his breaths
Their own breaths continue when he causes their deaths
His maneuver goes unseen, as it affects
Us who frown often,
But we feel the effects.

I noticed as a child
How he snatched the verve of adults who'd smiled.
They betrayed in their knitted brows
The years of attrition
From being smitten down.

With these tasks to accomplish,
He employs an accomplice
Or several he'll send
—Whether friend or stranger—
Till the task meets its end.

One once came then flew on the run,
Just went I thought her job was done,
He went and sent another to claim,
The remnants and dregs
Of what might remain.

This world keeps beating and pounding my soul,
Seems I alone know this phantom man's goal,
But why others support his cause I don't know;
Now his bag drips with blood,

Because I lost my smile many years ago.