Cloak and Scythe

It's-that smell
Burning flesh in the rain
Cutting a cleaver point reflecting golden
Tarry not a while

It's-that noise
Screeching halting advances
Severing hands of children
Tarry not a day

It's-that feeling
Sickening with chills like bubbling boils
Breaking the silk into glass and nails and bombs
Tarry not an hour

It's-that taste
Ripping violently at heavy organs
Twisting muscle and bone to chalk on pavement
Tarry not a minute

It's-that thing
Covering the dark, it is darkness
Fouling the breath, it is the weight
Tarry not a second