The night is dark, as the winds moan low
While devils sing in chants below,
They call upon their dead black lord
To comfort them with his blood soaked sword.
He sings to all, while fairies flit
With throats now torn with razor slits,
His voice will call the dead alive
In haste they'll rise in full surprise.
Through time they've laid bound up in sin
Like seasoned prisoners held within,
While blackened bowels within the earth
Provide their rancid snake like perch.
The night is dark, and the winds moan low
As blackness calls from far below,
Their sutble gusts blow straight and slow
To summon all who care to go.
Rusty Blackwood.
Copyright 2006-09.
~ This rather dark poem reads somewhat
like a nightmarish interlude, not completely
ghastly, yet certainly no picnic in a sunny
meadow. Sometimes it's interesting to let
one's mind wander with thoughts that are
not usually present, but when let run wild
can conjure up rather bleak images. ~
R.B.
