A stinging rain pelts down in the dead of night, And I can’t help but question my own sanity, Since madness masquerades as curiosity, While searching the wilds for this devil’s acolyte. A web of lightning crackles across the black sky, Revealing a low mound nestled within a bramble Hidden where no one would accidentally amble; And yet a sliver of warm light catches my eye. I push through the leather flap that serves as its door, And am surrounded by windchimes of yellowed bone. In the center of the hut, sits a withered crone. Her skin’s adorned with vile symbols, painted in gore. I whisper a brief prayer to the Shepherd on high, And hear a rasping response, no louder than a sigh. Then, the old crone’s toothless lips curl into a sneer, For those soft words ring true: He has no power here.
Image from Bing AI Image Generator