As a child I heard them in the distance,
Bellowing and yelping, hell hounds
In the night, dark and full of ancient spite;
Springing after an old coon in the oak tree:
Ancient war in the woods, broken kings
Under a bone moon; where my heart
Followed the dead to their hazed weir;
Sad eyes gleaming – moldy dreams
Traveling maze-wise, troubling stars;
Lost in the silence, mumming a lost cause,
An endless dance, bitter and broken as I go.
Sometimes in the night I hear her banshee call:
The crone and her riders shifting among dank stones;
And I like the fool I am, I rise up and follow them,
Over hills of my black mind: a dry leaf in a windy land.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.