SCARE CROE

You'll want to avoid meeting the straw man on the other side 

If you're not sure, then here is my reason why

SCARE CROE

Darkest of souls are not where they long to go, nor where the living judge them

to be.

Their wicked sins, sown among the living, have planted them here as a vile seed.

In the one plentiful field where no crows feed, nor ever bleed for such an evil seed.

They lie captive to the reaper’s greed, feasting on the blood of their eternal bleed.

Staked to the cedar rot of a crossbeam post, staring back gleefully at your condemned ghost.

Listen, gust of blistering winds cross themselves when the Strawman speaks.

Heed his toll; know thy purpose borne on the gasping breath he leaks.

Foul breath pierces through the needles of a parched tongue,

whispering slow tones past a wheezing lung.

"All have mourned you as Jekyll, blind conspirators of your soiled lie.

You were blessed to walk among them; to my privilege, you died a Hyde.

Love’s sour tears are grey, forgotten after thy passing of your rightful grave.

I welcome you kindly, now forever death, to my wheatfield enclave."

Crows circle madly, sobbing in the dry, scorched air of fear.

Fear of the Strawman who snatched your soul, then planted you here.

Crows do not take from this field of dark souls, for mortal sins must reap what they sow.

Under the Strawman’s stewardship, your fate rings its toll; this is the fate you’ll ever need to know.

You shall wither by burlap tether, your chained soul burned by husk‑-bridle thread.

Every scream choked beneath the weight of scorched splinters the devil’s lead.

Nightmare awake is now, beyond eternity, long after you're dead.

Trapped among the others, denied all sleep within your burial bed.

Croe does not reap your soul from thy bristle-dry, deathly foe.

"Forevermore, you weep as part of the harvests," quoth the artful Scare Croe.

-E. Croe