Eyes, scanning the shroud of shadows

in the corner,

at the side of fireballs,

screeching & seething with bloods—

smeared in the forehead,

four letters don't die,

those petious moans & stomach-souring thumps,

only a whining request between a poorly built

and bulging stone,

"Please, don't let it die."

A caterwauling sound echoes in the dark night,

searing the tormentous screams into their soul.

It's a deadly sword,

Striking every point- to heal,

Burning, humbling, piercing.

Striking the glade, he makes his way in the stone

building, there's no one to guard.

but can make out some screams & stony

voices within, their low harshness remind him—

of lonely vaults & mildewed tombs.

Deep & seeped with malice,

only one voice echoes,

"You may kill me, not my words."

Searching for a gap to look through,

they prepare themselves to meet their Creator

in this womb of pandemonium.

_______________