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