Langsuir
⊆ 5:52 PM by Pete | Poems . | ˜ 0 comments »
Gather the campfire
Sit closely, whisper softly,
For the tale I tell
The winds may carry
Into the ears
Of my subject matter.
Langsuir
Who is she?
By what graceless hand was she borne?
Borne of the terrible wrath of nature
Or the mischief of men?
Is she a creature
A beast or monster?
A human
Whose unfortunate guise
Makes her less than?
What is this thing
Whose countenace strikes dead the hearts of men
Whose bloodlust draws breath from her chosen ones
The one who feeds on body and soul
And leaves behind
Empty husks in the pale moonlight?
Sit closer
The campfire still burns
Good, good
Fear not the night's satin black
That blankets your faces
And blackens your features.
Do you hear
The rustling of leaves?
Careless, sharp,
Ravenous rubbings of leaven edges?
They say she roams
The trees
Swings
Looking down on her chosens
With ruby eyes of a hawk
Feasting on scarlet shadows
And when she strikes
Swoosh
Her gliding form
Descends as smoke
Into the belly of her chosens
And holds their faces
In her claws
For all the life of me
So terrible, so terrible
This thing
known as langsuir
The matianak, the pontianak
The vampire
Of local legends foretell
Under wooden huts
And campfires
Make no mistake
You who are here
Among closed ranks
Who hear my tale
And see my black features
Make no mistake,
Sit closer
Close ranks around me
For you'll never know
What lies atop
The treetops
Amongst you
You, who are here
You the ones with blackened faces
You scarlet shadows
You,
My chosens.
0 Responses to Langsuir
= Leave a Reply