Its presence did not pose a threat—merely stared in silence.
As the breath of wind swung its elegant raven-black cloak, its dark lips moved—whispered, uttering one word with all the pain from a thousand blades.
In suffer, he knelt—begged for its wrath to melt.
He said ‘mercy, mercy, mercy.’.
But one’s stood still, released the sins he had committed from the look in its dreadful eyes.
Yes, he was not ready to die.