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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground, Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi, And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning, After adventuring into the darkness of the night. Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman, Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls. Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival, It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza. Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers, Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected. A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency, Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them To leave alive. As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges, Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace. In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading, Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more. Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through These ethereal veins, reaching this source most Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon. Red bricked buildings lay side by side one Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters, The threshold's crossing, between life and death. Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum, Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou. On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans, Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus In this requiem of the dammed. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
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