Needless Things: Deathly Neon Lit Reapers

In phosphorescent alleys where shadows convulse, Reapers glide silent, their sickles repulse. Not of bone nor of flesh, but of spectral design, Outlined in neon, in death’s crooked sign.

Their scythes hum electric, arcs splitting the air, Harvesting pulses from those who still dare. A carnival of endings, a luminescent dirge, Where midnight and circuitry seamlessly merge.

Eyes glow like terminals feeding on dread, A code written solely for reaping the dead. Each flicker, each spark, a soul ripped apart, A death-lit graffiti scrawled onto the heart.

The living cower, but still cannot flee, Drawn moth-like to brilliance of fatality. For beauty resides in that merciless gleam The deathly neon lit reaper’s dream. NNN