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When it flaps its wings, someone dies.
When it flaps its wings, crowds will cry.
In its diamond cocoon, it silently sleeps.
Decades pass, not a stir, not a peep.
But when it’s time, it knows what to do.
It shakes, it shudders, finally, breaking through.
When it flaps its wings, someone dies.
When it flaps its wings, crowds will cry.
Little grim reaper, its mission is sole.
Grants no prayers, only collects souls.
When tragedy strikes, its wings unfold.
With each soft flutter, a death knell tolls.
When it flaps its wings, someone dies.
When it flaps its wings, crowds will cry.
It doesn’t care, for who, what, or why.
Be it nature’s wrath, or mankind’s lie.
When legions fall, or the earth splits apart,
one will rise... they call it
the Death Monarch.
Germaine Chong (Shu)
@shu.anonymous