Antestor

The assembler of souls absorbs all within his reach
His seemingly perpetual glance of doom
Would even make the smallest of serenities breach
As he rides he wind being the ghost of gloom
Running darkness all around
A knife in her hand
Fall, rising, screaming the name of her beloved
So weak, and so weary
Something blackening her thoughts
A cloud, a force, a weight
Finding her true love lying in red
Is this reality or just a vision in her head?
To be the knife as well as the wound
Is all that concerns her
Overwhelmed by a burden, like hordes of fear
The obscurity of the vale of tears