Sing out oh blades of jet and glass so hewn,
The bell tolls our final doom.
With symbols drawn and lines thus curved,
The Beast is called for mortal men unnerved.
Our darkness binds as goodness falls,
Inner gates crumble beneath foul witch’s gall.
Bells upon the water scream,
Voices call within the deep.
Rush forwards as each star descends from on high,
All take up the servants’ call, doom, doom, doom.
And I alone take up my blades, with bone glass in hand,
To plunge this place into The Between and let our darkness reign.
Get to the Wood where the light gathers,
The crumbling Wood of Yew.
Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.
If you’d like to read more darker writings from the Ink Owl follow the link and enjoy!