___
Glaring serrated edge, in the hand of a black-clad beast,
And upon the grated cobblestones, the moon casts an eerie glow,
MacNair nears his feast, bulky boots dragging.
Yellow lamps flicker out, the axe’s wicked edge flashing,
A forever threat in this dark man’s large, rough hand,
And he trudges with a smile upon his cracked and bleeding lips.
A decrepit shack emerges at the alley’s end,
Candle aflame in the window, figures pass it by,
MacNair moves closer, prepared to strike the unsuspecting silhouettes.
__
For simple curiosity, here is what it looked like before I revised it with Pengu:
Spoiler
Glaring steel and serrated edge, in the calloused hand of a black-clad beast,
Robes of darkest night; the malevolent silver of the moon casts an eerie glow,
And upon the grated cobblestones, solid bulky boots ominously drag, rasping...
This is the crimson executioner nearing his gory feast, our haunting MacNair.
Yellow lamps flicker out as Satan’s assassin makes his shady presence clear,
Scintillating, the axe’s wicked edge flashes in the illusory light of the moon,
A forever threat in this dark man’s large, rough hand...glinting...glinting...
And he trudges with a sinister smile upon his cracked and bleeding lips.
A decrepit shack, of falling slats and rotting wood, emerges at the alley’s end:
Enveloped in charcoal dust, wisps of thick, polluting smoke rising from its exterior,
But still a vibrant candle in the glassless window and meagre shadows pass it by,
MacNair steps closer, axe is raised, ready to strike upon the unsuspecting silhouettes.
Robes of darkest night; the malevolent silver of the moon casts an eerie glow,
And upon the grated cobblestones, solid bulky boots ominously drag, rasping...
This is the crimson executioner nearing his gory feast, our haunting MacNair.
Yellow lamps flicker out as Satan’s assassin makes his shady presence clear,
Scintillating, the axe’s wicked edge flashes in the illusory light of the moon,
A forever threat in this dark man’s large, rough hand...glinting...glinting...
And he trudges with a sinister smile upon his cracked and bleeding lips.
A decrepit shack, of falling slats and rotting wood, emerges at the alley’s end:
Enveloped in charcoal dust, wisps of thick, polluting smoke rising from its exterior,
But still a vibrant candle in the glassless window and meagre shadows pass it by,
MacNair steps closer, axe is raised, ready to strike upon the unsuspecting silhouettes.
