I hear him ride behind me in the dark,

The hoof beats gaining, closing ever fast;

His black horse silhouettes at lightning’s spark

And on its back, the rider, shadow cast.

His form has dogged my journey since I left

And oft I see his shadow in the trees,

Sometimes so close it seems I feel his breath,

Which chills me as some frigid fetid breeze.

Undaunted still I push yet ever on,

My steed’s slick sweat reflects the pallid moon,

Reminding me his strength is nearly gone

And soon that mighty back will sway and swoon;

Then I to brave at last that fearsome knave—

Where none have yet survived his crooked blade.