Banshee
BANSHEE
From out of the dusk, through a thin shaft of light
A dark shape appears on this cold misty night
A disfigured mutation, with a look of forlorn
She’s a tortured creation, she is the unborn
From the bleak depths of hell, and out of its fires
She ghosts in the shadows, the gutters and mires
She can smell the last breath that you take when you die
As she creeps through the gloaming, to wait for the sigh
You can sense her ill presence, and feel her dark power
As she glides on the wind, till the death taking hour
That’s when the creatures, they turn and they flee
As another soul’s claimed, by a wailing banshee
Copyright © Leslie Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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