He wandered with his hooves, that echoed in the night. This otherwordly artist, that appears in full moonlight. For only when the moon is bright, can the true darkness be applied. But the sun would fade him away, for the sun keeps the dark horse away.

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His brush is gigantic, his walk is pedantic, sickly sick steps within marshes and grasslands with in his hands a stick, with on the end this steed's tail, frail, his face damned and pale. Yet the brush is thick.

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Every house where the reaper would reap, he gave a stroke of darkness as he progresses to creep. If you catch a glimpse of this nightmarish being, it would be the last thing you'd be seeing. 

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You'd wake up in the morning, and look at your door, where you'd see a stroke of dark goo that wasn't there before. If his mark meets your ark, then it will surely sink. Be aware, you can tell he is there, by his poignant stink. You can try to run, but your life is on its brink, for once you are marked, the reaper is closer than you think.