poet & painter



Through deathly dusk, criss cross,
The leather winged bats do fly,
Neath clouds of charcoal chariots,
Mad messengers of the sky.
Galloping ominous and foreboding,
Most determined in their plight
To withdraw the nights cold curtain,
And make free the eerie light.
That surrounds with sinister aura,
The beaming morbid might,
Of a malevolent mystic marauder,
Crooked crescent, maestro of the night.
His monstrous minions await his bidding,
They are numerous and diverse,
Escaped from eternal banishment,
To a darker universe.
They adopt the form of witches,
Satanic spectres, ghastly ghouls,
To fest upon innocence and purity,
With a penchant for younger souls.
At the altars of ruined abbeys,
And circles of standing stones,
Covens gather, around their cauldrons,
Dark hooded, hook-nosed crones.
Assisted by horrid hobgoblins,
That they send abroad for bones,
Their sentinels are satyrs
Complete with hooves and horns.
They haggle over various concoctions,
Poison potions of pure dread,
That are cast upon the gravestones,
To invoke lost spirits of the dead.
Ubiquitous is their work!
Damnation is their spell!
Marshalling soldiers, for demon masters,
Beyond the gates of hell.
On all hallows eve, prepare a talisman,
One thing they simply can’t abide,
A hollowed out pumpkin,
With a candle, lit inside.


J. Armstrong

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