THE CRONE FOREVER WATCHES®
Macabre poetry by Donna J. Fennel (because I am strange).
My below poem describes a purely fictitious character.
Quilled on this eerie 18th eve of October, 2004 for thee.
Revised adding more surprise and demise on June 1, 2006.
Beware of the hideous hag who seeks her prey while flying through the air, sitting in her rocking chair ...
'Twas 'round murkiest midnight, stroll I yearned to take ~
For feelings intense, I sense, are too immense to shake.
The will instills me to amble at this eerie hour’s wake ~
Yet impending events soon revealed my horrible mistake.
A woeful wind blew through the gnarled fingers of trees ~
I shivered, while I trudged through a labyrinth of leaves.
Hearing their rustling echoes 'midst the murmuring breeze ~
Gracious, the error of terror I wore upon my sleeves!
Who goes there? Suddenly it hovers over my head ~
Like an anomaly I feel I have now come to dread.
Is this a bird at night? Perhaps an owl to be fed?
Alas, indeed, if only that were the case, instead!
This phantasm looms and lingers above again ~
Nearer me this time, erstwhile I duck and then
I view it clearly, as my eyes open ever so wide ~
While like a banshee it cries on its midnight ride.
I am abruptly snatched up by a talon-laden hand ~
By a hideous, ancient crone with skin like sand.
To abduct and imprison me is her evil game plan ~
Her mind and attack too malicious to understand.
I try desperately to look away and close my eyes ~
As the broom I am now seated upon somehow flies.
O’er buildings and terrain, of varying lows and highs ~
And then we settle upon a hovel of horrendous cries.
Coming from my mind’s cavernous depths inside ~
I devised a plan for where I could run and hide.
But this crone had my hands and feet well-tied ~
My hopes diminish, as my struggles are denied.
The crone wanders at night to prey upon the pure ~
She leaves before daylight ~ her realm is so obscure.
She descends from the sky, transformed as another ~
You cannot hide from this old crone, though you try.
This granny knows every nook and cranny, like no other.
She follows the scent of human blood she insanely craves ~
As it runs innocently through your frail viscosity of veins.
This old crone craves and staves it, so that she may reign.
Alas, this devouress, her prowess seems eerily immense ~
While her transfixing gaze and rage are enduringly intense.
As she casts you alongside poor victims sharing your fate ~
Now, come to the awful realization for you it is too late!
If she is certain to flourish, upon you she must nourish ~
And of death you soon reek, for it is crimson she seeks.
As blood rushes to your head, you rise with a surgence ~
She attacks without dread, as another victim emerges.
The crone wanders at night to prey upon the pure ~
She leaves before daylight ~ her realm is so obscure.
She descends from the sky, transformed as another ~
You cannot hide from this old crone, though you try.
This granny knows every nook and cranny, like no other.
Be careful of this “rocking chairful” when seeking cover.
And if you plan to go strolling during midnight’s wake ~
Remember MY fate, and do not make the same mistake ...
SWEET DREAMS.
©2004-06 Donna J. Fennel, Owner of Donnadreamland. All rights reserved®.
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Author: Donna J. Fennel | Copyright ©2003-06 donnadreamland | All rights reserved.
Revised: June 1, 2006.
