The Crone
Peering through a starless veil,
A pallid eye—above the din
Spies furious shapes of tooth and nail,
Neath creaking giants with cracking limbs
A ghastly fiend with nary an eye,
Gaping maw and slithering tongue
Stretches taut a leathery hide,
To beat upon a tethered drum
Motley creatures with vicious bite,
Crooked spine and bony spurs
Caper 'round a flickering light,
In mottled skins and ragged furs
A supine figure amid the row,
Kissed by visage in shrouded garb—
One hand reassures a trembling brow,
The other, holds firm an ornate barb
An incantation from a gnarled crone,
Her fingers outstretched—snatch the moon
Thrusted steel through breast and bone,
Herald forth an inexorable doom
The suffering flesh—a siren song,
To The Horror lurking yon The Pine
Spawned in The Void of the Cosmic Throng,
Of shape and form that breaks the mind
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Piercing through the flickering veil,
A carnal gaze that churns within
Eyes curious shapes that bow and wail,
Repays in kind with a charnel wind
An eldritch tongue—like scoured sword,
Smites the menagerie on its knees
Withers the vine and sours the gourd,
Parts bird and bark from the trees
Sinewy beings with leathery wings,
Borne from the flame—flit to-and-fro
Pluck lifeless things like violin strings,
To marionette a puppet show
Neath weeping giants with blackened limb,
Infernal corpses, made to parade
The crone crows a hymn through hideous grin,
Sour on the wind, a sweet serenade
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In the cold, cruel dark—an icy refrain,
The soft, pallid glow—now scarlet red
The crone props her bones upon crooked cane,
And ventures forth with her army of the dead
Copyright © Raven Mirthwood | Year Posted 2025
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