Poem

Walking down the street,
Chilling wind so freeze.
On my way to grocery,
Just another midnight lonely.

A man in dark sweater,
Never thought; my grim reaper.
A gun was pointed on my head,
Freezing with the chilling wind.

Grim demands green notes in the purse,
Giving him might end this curse,
But grim wants no witnesses,
And the death scythe swings.

A bullet that pierce through innocence,
A bullet that cracks heart into piece,
A bullet that shatters dream,
A bullet that knows nothing but destruction.

I saw myself falling down.
The world seems to be drowned,
By the dripping blood and tears,
For the grim knows no fear.