Mark R Slaughter (1957)
The empty head of Death is wailing –
Siren to a mind aflailing;
Unpropitious stare assailing,
Casting forth His disembowelling dream!
Am I the flouncing soul He seeks –?
The jetsam of our realm He wreaks –
The uncontested heir His freaks
Of Hell hath chosen – so, be I supreme:
The crop of all to blame for ailing
Spirits cross our earth; derailing
Man– so now, for me the nailing
Banishment to hear the Devil scream!
His haggard hands gesticulate
The closing presage; now the gate
Begins to creak; and I await
With pounding fear to greet His gleeful beam…
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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