If you are adverse enough, you can see me standing not too far off from the light of the silver moonrise.

You squint in hopes that I will come into view.

But hope is an illusion; it is a fantasy of the human mind given to make them believe that they have something worth living for. Faith is a blindness of humankind, giving them a feeling that their souls are conveyed from the world of reality to an ultimate paradise of immortality.

I am the illusion of your mind. A figment of what has been, what is, and what will be. I am the wind that sweeps its way to make you breathe. I am the dying air. I am the shadow, which creeps through the darkness while you walk through the alleyway; the cold brush against your neck that which makes you fear the harvester, has come to maintain your life. To take your life. I will be there when you breathe in your last breath.

With a broken wing I fly. With a chilling gaze, I look back at you as the darkness consumes my silhouette of the silvery moonlight. You will fear for your existence. Flee in hopes of evasion. But our eyes have met. I am behind you, I am at your heel.

You are at my whim. I need no weapon or a scythe, for I am above the reaper's foolish games. I am soaring over your petty existences of rules and consequences for taking lives. You cannot fight what you cannot see. You'll fight and lash and the least you cause is a single scratch, a trickle of eternal blood. Why do you fear death if you believe so that afterwards you will be sent to rapture? Why do you wish to persist to remain in this living hell?

Now close your eyes, child, and let me sing you a song.

You inquire my identity, wish to know whom I am to gain some authority somehow that you are in what way not the weaker prey in this predicament. Are you afraid? I can feel you shake. Do not fool yourself. Listen.

But before the melody begins, you are taken into darkness. With a solitary moment stricken across your throat, another foe of the Mother is free.