bleak belated october’s e‘en,
as malevolent as the blackest mass,
constellations aligned with foul tides
crashing on a nearby shore, premonition
of danger in the chorus of spirit sounds
echoing on the emerging night,
he creeps warily
along a narrow path, scraping outstretched
hands on low-hanging limbs of primeval trees
trembling in the wind as their wanton whispers
signal needles puncturing his spine,
his throat knotted
in fear as he stumbles from the path
into unattended brush which inhibits his way
to the lair where the totemic elder was
poisoned that unholy eve five years past,
garments torn, hands bleeding from bramble,
he hurls his weight
against the door, squealing on rusty hinges,
smell of death slapping him in the face as
he crosses the threshold, allows his fingers
to lead him in the dark from chair to table
to overhanging lamp smelling of kerosene,
igniting the yellowed wick, its pale light
revealing a wooden throne in the corner,
paralyzed by the familial snarl
curling the twisted sneer of an aged man in
moldy robes flanked by a somber council
of ancient wizards--shaman, warlocks,
sorcerers--their empty eyes locked on his
terrified face fixed on the altar prepared
with goblets of blood red wine,
in the center
a dagger-like athame to open and close
the sacrificial circle, and in the shadows
the evil goddess of lust,
his heart pounding
like a drum in sync with the heavy door
slamming repeatedly in the wind, frenzied
hands clapped tight to seal aching ears,
shutting out the shrill forswearing shriek,
the abrupt constriction in his chest,
the suffocating dread, as
the old man springs
from the throne in a swirl of robes,
leaps at him with a fiendish laugh, clutching
his shoulders, breathing demonic death
deep into his lungs, hissing, rasping,
trick or treat, my son?
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Regis
Return to “the sacrificial circle”…I’ve been here for a long time waiting with my archaic tanned European Pygmy leathers; trimmed with the tails of 44 Tasmanian Wolves...
with the depths of darkness as my shroud of hidden spies:
Sincerely Bound By Incantations,
Poetess Victoria...The Dark Pestilence of Romance
Archaic Mistress of Caliginous Temptations
The Buzzard
The spirit of Allhallows Eve
permeates your words effectively.
Another part of your enigmatic personality
revealed 4 your legions of adoring fans.
Nicely done ... and I really mean that
in all earnestness.
Ahem ....
And may I also say that shamen is spelled shaman?
How lilliputian I feel correcting the master.
r
Georg
Thanks, Gene!
Carole~
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
With dark intensity, the dramatic fantasy unfolds in superior detail...Wheatley and Rowling undertones...love, "dagger-like athame" and "shrill forswearing shriek," in particular (among many other great lines and phrases).
And then that ending!
John
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :D