Nigh errors


At night come the terrors

From this strange, eerie calm,

From the broken mirrors

Dancing into my palm,

I am the conductor

Of this mad orchestra

But too the destructor

Of my only mantra;

Upon the lone high hill

Of silence and soft glow

Follows, patient and slow,

Ready to pounce and kill,

A predator of old

Born from a heart of gold

In an ancient forest,

As god it will not rest

Until all is made right,

Only an offering,

– Forgotten ancient rite –

Can quench its endless thirst,

Unless it cuts my string

With its bloody teeth first…


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