The Creature

The Creature

By Luke Tarzan

The creature writes in blackened blood

With hollow sticks of yew.

Its pestilence came like a flood

To desecrate the pews.

The tarnished walls of antique hands

Stand broken and defiled;

The twisted work of Satan’s hands—

The thing that spreads sheer bile.

The thing was once a gentle man,

A figure born of silver eyes

And held in loving hands.

But darkness crept up through the house;

The silver one’s demise.

The shadows rushed in and took hold

And gouged out his white eyes;

A pure spirit no more—

Naught but a thin shell that was cold.

The thing fed on the lies

And sinful lives of all;

It stalked the town all through the night

And slithered slowly down the black halls.

An ominous being, a blight,

The fetid shade within the trees;

A horrid portent of madness—

The spectral stealer of sleep.

The sinful know naught but sadness

And forever in sickness they cry.

They throw themselves from the towers

And in sheer madness they fly;

For in the sky they see roses—

The most lovely of flowers.

They grab and they stretch

For the majestic thing is their light.

But they’ve been fooled by a wretch—

This shining rose is a blight.

And so they fall to their deaths

Screaming screams of black fear.

And they let out their last breaths

For they know the end is quite near.

They were fooled by a creature,

A pretty rose, and a light.

They let sin be their preacher

And they gave in with no fight.

Now in the dead church,

The bloody, sick theatre of gore

The fallen creature sits perched

Looking down at the floor.

He slides from his high seat

And slithers down through the pews.

He takes in the fresh meat

And draws their black blood with his yew.

The floor is a mess

And the air is deceased;

The creature laps up the blood

And howls loud like a beast.

The old temple is dead

And the night is still young;

And so the creature stalks off

To spread his terror and dread.

He is one with the darkness,

The sin, and the wrong.

So keep your motives quite pure

Or you’ll surely be gone.

©Luke Tarzian 2011