At night under plight of sleepless blight, moonlight washes through the window
As howling wind screams round every bend of trees to appease dancing devils,
Who mark their time by death’s tollhouse chime on every hour while you cower
In bed, where you lay your weary head to rest, flying cares on wings of prayers
To heaven’s door when suddenly you hear footsteps across the floor and more,
You spy the awful face of the Stranger who walks to stalk an unsuspecting soul
In unholy rhythm with the bands of hell, demanding their diabolic allegiance,
Commanding their assistance against any resistance you might make for sake
Of your life now at stake, but you cannot feign courage nor gain the sympathy
Of lighter spirits, or even sprites, to make a defense against the odious offense
Of him who comes to terrorize, and so you realize your only hope is in appeal
To empyrean fortification beyond space and time, where majestic Life abides,
And should you in pain gain some sure help divine against this dark Stranger,
Then you might well resign the balance of your days to the valiance of virtue,
Whereby your very self becomes an eternal expression of gratitude
In possession of endless grace without reservation or any hesitation…
But see eyes that still peer thru the dark so stark? the Stranger yet remains
Guided by dull and dim light while walking the streets at night,
What do I hear but a frightening sound heightening my fear
At the mere thought of what it might mean and what scene
Should accompany the scream of terror beyond dark dream?
It is worse than beast ready to feast, red in tooth and claw;
It is a man with soul with no protectors, hunted by specters
Which are no respecters of title of fame or any other claim,
For they have lived ten thousand times ten thousand years,
And they have ears to hear the empty boasts of mortal hosts
~ such is the doom of humanity as the devil spins his loom ~
And so such gloom hangs over the head and heart of another
For whom the dark is too heavy and tomb too certainly sure;
And what to do now that I am plagued by such terrible voice,
But turn and run or assume my station by this hapless victim
Abiding by the dictum of love and courage above,
Thus deciding my own fate with no readied escape
To the morning because I did not heed the warning of wisdom?
Will I die to try to buy this brother a few more days from hell?
Or will I vanquish this foe with a blow aglow in midnight hour
From the bower of heaven on which grows unworldly power?
There lives a mystery down Pembleton Road,
Where it makes its abode with stools of toad,
And ever thick fog hanging low over its bog
That brightest light cannot penetrate —
Tis always night and filled with blight —
And you ask, what lives there but a reprobate,
Some deformed shadow lurking all around
Under naked tree branches so you hardly see,
But you know it lives in dark as thick as brick,
And that it’s been there long before the street,
And it has no name but it has staked its claim,
And no one is welcomed on Pembleton Road,
But the unwary move in some times, at least,
Until the pet-beast craves another meal
And, thus, seals the doom of strangers,
Who seemed oblivious to the curse, and so
Now find there place in the back of a Herse,
That is, if there is anything left to bury . . .
And this is the only time it makes merry
With cackling laugh that can only be heard,
Never seen . . .
There lives a mystery down Pembleton Road,
One undiscovered but still known all too well,
And at a short distance chimes the church bell
As if to punctuate this evil on Pembleton Road
What cargo do you carry as you come barreling through?
Is it good or ill to seal my destiny desperately or in ecstasy?
What passengers ride along and do they belong to the night
Or to the light? Are they kind enough to mind themselves?
And do you bring grain for the hungry soul or only pain?
Nothing is plain to see in such numinous rain; it’s insane!
But, then, what should one expect . . .? It is the night train
Something has changed inside you, something strange
Over the whole range of your person, now rearranged,
Yet you smile the same way and walk through the day
Just as you always have, but it’s as if you have cried
For the last time and somehow have now died inside;
So as we walk side by side now and talk as we have,
There is only your shell, your inner-well has run dry;
And try as I might the sight is not the same, not really;
You are present, persisting in existing, but with no life;
Is this just the gyration my imagination, or is it true?
Did your spirit finally break for the sake of survival?
And is there is no hope of revival? Are you living dead?
Something has changed inside you, something strange;
Yes, something vital has changed you are not the same
Black ravens sing
Devil turns the pages
Ghost plays dirges
Wise owl winks
Rancid rat crawls
And eyes sting
And ears ring
And black ravens sing . . . again
Note: My fellow-blogger and friend, Tanya Cliff, penned another “vers l’avant,” the type of poetry read above, and inspired me to do the same. Thank you, Tanya! This was an invigorating challenge and fun!
Razor sharp edge cuts clean through the pledge
And alleges love while I lie bloodied on the floor
With the door wide open as an overt invitation
To leave without mention or excessive attention
While you bring white dove to sing ‘hallelujah’
Traveling at the speed of light love takes flight
In dead of night with nowhere to lay my head
But nothing is said about what we once shared
And how we bared our two hearts, part by part
I only know the black crow that sings ‘hallelujah’
And grace sways above me like some mighty tree
And I can see the glow but can’t touch the flow
So low I lay from the blow struck from far below
And I know this is the end and bend in humility
As my soul burns as I learn to sing ‘hallelujah’