The Banshee

A portent of Death!
In the purple dark of midnight,
Beneath a wind swept sky,
Clouds gathered in their masses,
To a roar of thunderous cries,
The storm was fast approaching,
Trees covered from it's wrath,
As the Banshee howled in madness;
It's portent unto Death!

Rain lashed against the windows,
Rattled on the panes,
Wolves howled in the distance,
As the Banshee wailed again,
Fair warning to the frightened,
Who huddled around the fire,
Their faces, lit by lightning,
Showed none, as yet, expired.

Their hearts, troubled by stories,
Of wraiths and ghouls and ghosts,
In a land of superstition;-
Where witches were the hosts;-
Beat madly in their bosoms,
As though trying to catch a breath,
As the Banshee howled it's wail again,
It's portent unto Death!

The dog barked at the doorway,
Before scurrying 'neath a table,
The Banshee coming closer,
It's sickening screech more audible,
The walls shook like cardboard,
Within that deafening roar,
Someone screamed in terror,
Before falling to the floor.

A thunderbolt of lightning,
Revealed a terrifying sight,
A face filled with scorn and hatred,
That sprung forth from the night,
It flew across the ceiling,
Borne by a wind from Hell,
The Banshee howled it's laughter,
And flew off with a soul!

In the shadows stood the Reaper,
With a bony finger stretched,
His silence almost deafening,
As he reaped the wretched,
His dark, soulless eyes watched,
As the others cowered in fear,
And the Banshee cawed it's laughter,
To which He cocked an ear.

I tell to you this story,
As a witness from the scene,
Never was I more frightened,
By what I heard and seen,
For to look upon a Banshee,
And into the eyes of Death,
Is to feel the rattle in the throat,
Of One's mortal last breath!
Published: 5/11/2016
Bouquets and Brickbats