They watched me carefully,
fluttering in my cage, pointing at my hair.
"how fierce" said the old man with the crooked teeth.
I pressed my clawed hands against the solid bars,
widening my yellow eyes.
"no, not fierce." said the old woman with the cane.
Her leather face turned upwards, smiling,
the skin, stretching like it had not practiced that action,
in a very long time.
"how free."

I wish to learn the secrets, so eternal
of spiritual transformation
To know the ways of the Ferryman
To usher souls through and beyond
I long to master the art
of cosmic transference
To carry the departed
to their resting place
And to be their guardian

It is not an act of hate,
Sick lust or twisted love
it is not the fault of rage
Nor is it for fun.
I do it in the name of
inhuman artistry
My life i've dedicated
To the Reaper's harvesting.

This world is such an ugly place
I'm your savior in a way
I cut you loose and set you free
I grant your spirit liberty...

Evil exists in all colors and codes
there's every kind of shape and size
A world ablaze, drowning in torture and ****
We could use a few more minds
like mine.

I am not a killer.
I am an apprentice of death.
I will guide your spirit home
on the wings of your last breath.