The Calling Of Evil

Summer’s warm twilight taunts this restless evening time

as fearless gypsy moths of Sundays sultry shadow

 hurl themselves upon a faint light which in the darkness shines.

Dust from their shattered wings floats gentle into the night air

and crickets on promenade chirp their summer serenade without care.

A crescent moon appears bright above wispy linen clouds.

and upon the forest glen fair maidens of forgotten chance

 dance giddy beneath the rush of a blood soaked shroud.

A slithering laughter crawls unencumbered across this desperate forest floor,

crawling up and over the seven thrones of the seven kings of desecrations war.

A million mute men now wailing, and all without eyes to see

march on without question to the beckon of these seven kings.

Onward into this summers perilous night,

onward into the destruction of ignorance and plight.

Onward like the gypsy moth…drawn by evils light…

Ashes now unto ashes…as remains are drawn unto the dust of mankind

J. Allen Wilson © SIX 2006