The Reapists

Without teeth and without fingernails
You’re left to bite and scratch the wall
Your precious future’s bloody trails
Stop dead where there is no door

There stood your life-size hero toy
Moulded in the aspiring womb
Everything you want for a life of joy
Came to meet you there in your room

The Reapists make sport of the infant’s inner adult
Vanished, defiled, and tightly bound
But who is the one at fault?

The visit proved so sadly short
Behind your hero, a shadow dress
A frozen terror the hero’s caught
As withered hands softly caress

Black cloaks hiding sour sunken faces
Rotted teeth and eyes that match
They smell child’s dreams from a thousand paces
And rove their tongues all through their catch

The Reapists suck blood from the minor’s imaginary adult
It’s screaming, crying, soiling the ground
And who is the one at fault?

The hero’s clothes are being torn
At the mercy of sharp phallic scythes
The bright path that greeted you when born
Is bitten away like many lives

The hero is completely stripped
Its limbs are tied and gagged mouth
Thick bonds sprayed by the scythes and gripped
Hoists its hostage to destined south

The Reapists take turns on the innocence created adult
It’s snapped, it’s ripped, it’s smeared around
So who is the one at fault?

Through all this you motionless look
A peculiar sight your eyes inhale
Two creatures grasp your hands and suck
And swallow away your every nail

Now one more creature grasps your head
And violent upon your shoulders shakes
Within the mouth a rattle dread
And spit your teeth in noisy flakes

The Reapists leave nothing of the young fantasy adult
You overfed it, exposed, it was quickly found
It’s you who was at fault

The captors with captive take their leave
Through the wall a swirling tar bath
The sheer shock you naught but breathe
A breath broken by a high hollow laugh

On your ideal grownup you too long dwelled
Larger, juicier, on and on it swelled
And now it’s gone, no hope return
The now darkened path, may as well burn

The Reapists love you.