The Prophet

 

The Prophet 

(A lone voice whispers)

It was cold on the ground, Without a midnight sound.

A strange time when black bats flew like arrows in the half-light as the moon came around. 

And there, on the hilltop on Mount Megiddo. It waited.

 Unhallowed and old.

Death calling to visit wearing its black shrouds.

Many cried that night. Their pleas like grey smoke. Disappeared like magicians into the gathered clouds.

And as the moon was swallowed by the night, a wild chant began as the good and bad started to fight.

While they danced like knights in the white.

Many banshees choked and smiled, hidden behind some oak.

Away from the common folk.

 And when the battle was lost. When the remaining folk rose, the Banshees came out.

Singing with such greed.

A new light entered the world, born of such deeds.

The star of the Black Night.

A dark light lit by unworldly gods and worshipped with beastly feasts, which now parade in the twenty-first century.

But there, like once on another hilltop, is still hope.

The cross bearer will come once more. So stay strong. And keep praying so that door opens.

For the true battle cries will once more be heard as Banshees hide from the screams of “Libertas a bestia.”

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

Freedom from the beast.

Image shared under fair usage policy.