As the night creeps in,
Smoke from London's hearths descend,
Swirling - dancing with the fog,
Haloing gaslights with a thickened haze,
It's been several years ago,
When the full moon was bloated
For three nights, it hung low and bright
With a tinge of red on its final aspect
I saw her. God help me, I saw her.
At first, I thought it was some terrible dream,
Paralysis prevented me from screaming,
As my chest heaved from the weight of this hag
It's getting dark. Is that a distant rumble?
I'm getting goose-bumps from the prospect of thunder.
Did the temperature drop? It suddenly got cold.
For what time I have left, it's hard to be bold
By T.L. Coston
Ah, who is this stranger staring back at me
An imposter mocking youth and vitality