or slither be a better word.
With cruel talons he stroked
to shore and raised his horned head to the night,
and laughed at the moon,
no, bellowed with throaty glee,
he was alive.
The night was young, as was his time,
for daylight would end his course.
He must choose and take to hell
the most innocent outward shell, which he could smell
the sin within and bubbling to get out.
Ah, sweet taste to his purpose,
like a lamb.
He stalked among the alleys of the city,
the edges of the buildings, as he must,
The pathways were empty until
he found a man in rags with a bottle spilled in hand,
and he devoured him as sure a sinful
soul, to take back dark below,
a miscreant.
As sun began to rise, he returned to the waters,
returned to the master with grim smile
of a well feast of sin. But as the soul
he had eaten brought forth from the demon breast,
it shined in holy light with a searing
pain for the gathered evil ones,
leaping in confusion.
The rags were not for want of crimes, or sins.
No man was the better. He had
fallen in his sorrow from the loss of
his family, their violent deaths had driven him
to give up what he had, and the
wine was one small celebration,
of Christmas Day.
Dark Master and his minions were forced to shield
themselves and scream in fright
as the bright soul rose higher and filled
their lair, and burned the demons in blisters
then diminished with gentle pity.
A sorrowful cry for them, the soul
rose away.
� 2000 DPMcClellan
