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Through raven’s eye, viewed I my fate, blood scribed upon the ground,
whilst shadows of the darkwood’s dead, stood solemnly around.
Accusing faces staring down, from purgatory’s stay,
those wraith dead eyes, that froze the soul, will haunt me till I die.

‘The Reaper with his sudden scythe, doth sever meek and bold,
his harvest ever incomplete, till all lie in his fold.
But thou alone are given grace, one chance to change thy fate,
recount the tales of this darkwood, ere ‘tis for thee too late.’

Those awful words, with trembling limbs, stirred me from the ground,
as thunder pealed, the heavens wept, below that fearful sound.
Stumbling in the fear of death, I fled that fearsome place,
In panic’d flight with senses lost, I ran at headlong pace.

Along the bank, across the bridge, where sanity divides,
the sanctuary of human kind, from Hells Gate gaping wide.
My wearied limbs and heaving chest, I thought would fail me soon
Full length I fell upon the ground, and cried to God a boon

The pastor drew me to his arms, his face close drawn and near,
‘I thought all knew, of that darkwood, all hallow’s night to fear.’
In distraught mind, and speech foregone, too faint to tell the tale,
He bore me to the chapel, beyond the darkwood’s vale.

His draught of wine gave sustenance, becalmed my racing heart,
Within the hour, with stuttered breath, my tale I did impart.
Deathly pale, he trembling turned, before the altar high,
in bitter tears he bowed his head, and groaned an awful sigh.

With granite jaw and head held high, he swore a dreadful oath,
that he should die that very night, or exorcise these ghosts.
His cloak drawn close about him, he knelt in silent prayer,
then turned without a backward glance and walked toward their lair.

His Bible held before him, like a shield before the fray,
The pastor strode into the night, his daemons to allay.
‘The time has come to face the past, to reap what I have sown,
These spectres of my debauched life, I must face alone.’

At morn’s first light, I ventured forth, and found him by the lake,
and whispering through morning  mist, to me the Lady spake.
‘Thou spoke the words and told our tale, the justice bell be rung,
For vengeance is exacted, and the guilty life expunged.
For thirty years, this wretched soul, turned evil from the good,
and bound us here, beside the lake, beneath the deep darkwood.’
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