Horror and Strife

Marching, laughing, shrieking,
Riding a blue-black horse.
Around the corner, galloping,
Fella chooses his course.

The skeletal trees point fingers;
The wind whispers in his ear.
And the burnt flesh on his cheeks,
Is enough to inspire fear.

A cackle rips from his throat;
He wields a blood-soaked knife.
Though he appears just once a year,
He's remembered for horror and strife.

His bones tear through his skin,
As he leaves a broken town.
And the victims slaughtered tonight,
Are waiting to be found.