Dark dreams always begin with the dark clouds devouring the morning sun, the pouring rain, the black birds chirping to the sound of a gun, and bloodstains all over around while the bodies lay lifeless on the ground. . It's nothing serious, just the portrait of a dark dream, a dream dreamed with open eyes. Lurking in the shadow of death is the reaper, the souls of men cry out as their lives are taken, we called their last cry the song of hope, the blind hope that their song would bring relief. 'help. “Your body and your soul are ours,” we will always tell them. What are we doing here? The graves are already dug! Yes, the bodies must be buried. Twenty-one bodies lie in their new home; the house that has no return. It was the work of an artist; someone who has mastered the art of assassination. Which “we”? It's just me, the Reaper. Shit ! I am soaked, soaked with man's blood. Why does this dark dream continue to haunt the world? Deep down, I sit firmly as I view my playing field holistically. Amusing; This is the name I give it when I harvest the bodies of men. It's over, the task is complete and the hunting time has resumed. Where are you my precious prey? We look forward to meeting you. A man is walking alone on the sidewalk, he looks like he just came from a hard night at work, don't worry, I will ease the stress you are carrying. We stopped next to him, with a sudden noise. He fell; we dragged the body into the trunk of the hearse. How lucky of him to be in the right place at the right time. Reaper, you devil! We are going to enjoy ourselves. A new day has come, I could smell the stench of festering flesh coming from my garden, and I see the streets painted beautifully in scarlet and the cold wind howling the despair of the darkness. Again middle of paper......, the weapons we know, now towards the highway we go. What is this sound? It's the sound of a bus coming slowly down the highway. It's midnight. Why did they head towards the shadow of Death? The guns started spitting all over the bus, singing our song, the song of death. Blam! Blam! Blam! Nineteen bodies are in ruins. Bloodstains all around as the bodies lay lifeless in their metal mausoleum. It's nothing serious, just the portrait of a dark dream, a dream dreamed with open eyes. An absolutely worthless heart, frozen by hatred, denial, neglect, grief and all together pain. Crazy, yes, we are, of course. This world makes monsters like us; it’s more about mass-producing ourselves. Why allow such a simple-minded creature to exist? The one who feeds on his fellow human beings, the one who enjoys suffering and pain without remorse? This is pure manslaughter. But this madness is real, it's our world.