In the hollow, ancient voices start to whisper, cry, and call,
In the forest deep, primeval, at the equinox of Fall.
Dark the evening in the hollow, misty tendrils in the trees.
In the center of the hollow is a young man on his knees.
Prayers to heaven, fervent, pleading,
as the sunlight starts to fade.
Heavy heart, and weeping, needing,
like a tender village maid.
Shines the knife in whitened moonlight.
Stars are watching, pale and dread.
Soon the blood runs rich and steaming,
black by moonlight, thick and red.
Gleaming fangs snatch souls now fleeing
earthly bondage, pain, and strife.
Spirits in the dark, all-seeing,
take a lover, whore, or wife.
Somewhere in a darkened throne room
candles’ preternatural gleam,
vanquish demons dancing dervish.
Wake to find it all a dream.
BlackQuill 