A trace of blood is a patchy veneer,
That is laced on the stagnant water,
The smell is a crime on the still, tepid air,
The scavenging crows give no quarter.
The world has turned cold,
And the voices of old,
Have come home from the darkened sea.
And their music is fear,
In my terrified ear,
As this hell descends upon me.
I run for the door,
Feeling judged ever more,
As those spirits of darkness abound.
And the raven’s black gore,
Drips with glee to my floor,
And I slip in this war,
To the ground.
I scramble my wits,
In a handful of bits,
And I breathe and I gather my steel.
My rapier must strike,
To my left, and my right,
To bring this here ghost to my heel.
But there can be no cut,
As I thrust to his gut,
And my blade is turned like a wheel.
My sword is no more,
Merely dust on the floor,
As his sick will is turned on my steel.
I am left without weapon,
Nor a sure foot to step on,
And my spirit bereft of belief,
And the demon I feared,
Has approached, and then neared,
And my flesh is now meat for his teeth.
I can hear the dead drowning,
In his mouth, and his frowning,
Is creating the hell I must suffer,
And his face is a twisted,
Corrupt and clench-fisted,
Disease that gets sicker and rougher.
Yet I feel there must be,
Some divine victory,
As the evil embraces my soul,
And the love that abides,
A great force from inside,
Comes to aid, and my arm sees it’s goal.
There is screaming and dying,
A life that is flying,
From the demon as he comes for my grace,
And my sword arm is swift,
With a sickening gift,
And the wrongness is gone from this place.
For there can be no fear,
When the darkness draws near,
If you stand true and do not give ground,
For when all things are weighted,
There is nothing more fated,
Than a man with his faith newly found.
