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The Man Of Sand

The Man Of Sand
by Charles E S Fairey 


To the Man of Sand 
The time will pass, 
Grip Grimm’s Hand 
Death’s Final Mass. 

Stare into his eyes 
The Dark Oblivions await, 
Pass through the veil’s lies 
Embrace the love of Fate. 

Here he reposes, Throne of Grace 
Cloaked and hooded with scythe in hand, 
Brilliant eyes and gruesome face 
Say hello to the Man of Sand. 

The clocks ticking chiming away 
Surrounded by hands of mortal time, 
His shadow watching names, day by day 
His book of life and death, his immortal rhyme. 

Like a violin his sombre tone 
His eyes dark as deep abyss, 
His sacrament, blood and bone 
His love, a black rose’s kiss. 

Here he reposes, Throne of Grace 
Cloaked and hooded with scythe in hand, 
Brilliant eyes and gruesome face 
Say hello to the Man of Sand. 

Names erased from selected leaf 
Written into Death and gone from Life, 
The Song of Names, his eternal teeth 
For his mortal instrument, the unconquerable scythe. 

The Harvester, the Reaper, the Harbinger of Fate 
Listen in the wind for here comes doom, 
Once you’ve seen his form its way to late 
For Oblivion envelopes all in stone marked tomb. 

His life a lonely tome of stringless harps 
His hands the coldest draughty shiver, 
His breath an unfelt wind of silent hearts 
Him the ferrymen of the Abyss’ river. 

To the Man of Sand 
You Must Go when he beckons, 
All aboard, Grip Grimm’s Hand 
For all life the days he’s reckoned, 
Taken across the Void from this land 
The clocks final chime, no more seconds, 
Your Name never uttered, lips now silent 
The violin plays a sombre tome, your veil vacant, 
For now he beckons, Grip My Hand 
“For I Am, the Man, of Sand.”


The Working Tools of Death

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