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Wassime Parks Poem
She runs through the night wild and free,
Deciding who her next victim will be.
Hooves striking sparks and eyes of fire,
She races the moon and doesn't tire.
Her coat is black as the shadows of Hell,
Her screams like the day the angels fell.
Mane and tail white like a shroud,
She gallops along, her head held proud.
'Ware the night, don't close your eyes,
'Ware the darkness, where horror lies,
'Ware the sleep, both lords and bums,
For rich or poor the Nightmare comes!
She thunders through the swirling mist,
Seeking the next one on her list:
From an aging monarch asleep in his bed,
With thoughts of malice in his head.
To a lowly scullion asleep on her cot,
With thoughts of taking what she should not.
Those with intentions they know are wrong,
And those who fear or worry too long.
'Ware the night, don't close your eyes,
'Ware the darkness, where horror lies,
'Ware the sleep, both lords and bums,
For rich or poor the Nightmare comes!
We have all seen her sometime before,
We always know what she has in store.
She visits us all several times a year,
And usually leaves us sweating with fear.
On stormy nights we've heard her scream,
We always thought it was just a dream.
We've felt her hoof beats, waited with dread,
And we know every time we go to bed…
'Ware the night, don't close your eyes,
'Ware the darkness, where horror lies,
'Ware the sleep, both lords and bums,
For rich or poor the Nightmare comes!
Copyright © Wassime Parks | Year Posted 2005
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