Hollow yawns from the devils belly.
Curling round corners with evil intent,
clip-clopping down cobblestones
driven in an empty town.
Streets are silent, the faces have gone,
alleyways left crumbling, dissolved of souls to care.
Scattered in fear of darkest mood,
where shadows freeze and venture the hills.
Rusting bell in a stark, stone tower,
peals of eleven near the hour of midnight.
A frightening instant when black witches devour,
cackling insanely under the wrath of torn cloaks.
Rotting timber window frames, held with fine line,
rattling as ghostly gales wither and snuff out
all signs of centuries gone.
Funereal ribbons deck the doors unlocked,
left in terror at murderous events,
life sucked from mortuary slabs,
cold and bloodied by death himself.
The night is alone, contemplating its foulness
and snaring the dead from sleepless oblivion.
Sense is depleted from the armies of men,
once impassioned and beyond frailties of nature.
Cascades of corpses stalking those streets,
endless processions of uniformed anger.
Death is eager to eat the flesh of mankind,
for they will sleep in the arms of sorrow.
Dark is the night.