A Midsummer's Nightmare

A far – flung tale, from the lips of a fictitious man.
A storyteller in the land of horrors: -


Stories – respite to a bleeding ghoul,
The spirit of an unsatisfied soul.
The dark digests of a burning moon,
After the candle in your room.

The hideous creatures that you beheld,
Took you for a ride on wood to be fell’d.
A sun that refused to rise
In the land of witches, never wise,
Went up and down the skies,
‘Cross an old man’s dying eyes.


Just as night saw the last wick burn,
The l’il one did twist and turn.
In its sleep saw wondrous things,
Stricken hands spinning heads of long – gone kings.

Leering faces, ripp’d from their sorry bodies
‘Dorning walls in perfect Dees.
Blood that dried upon the tearways,
Will flow again on July freeways.


Dark forms upon the road,
Hooded and gown’d – The Black Metal Lode.
Reeking shapes throwing lengthy shadows,
Rising from graves, sporting Luciferean haloes.

Never looking up, eyes on hell’s brink;
Souls banished, sentenced to the devilish drink.
A dreaded realm of death and fire,
Of scalded bodies, ‘fraid to spark a master’s ire.


The rise of apathy, a recidivist’s pleasure;
A soul with no remorse – old Satan’s treasure.
Rising materialism that killed a saint,
Such cold assassins, seem’d usual but ain’t.


And when the book was shut, the story done,
The teller I saw, his eyes with wicked cun (ning).
Spelling out words with evil ease –
‘Twas the Devil himself, that brought me to my knees.