A Nightmare-Rhyme

[Ex Tempore XXVIII]

My horror is not born only in the abyss of my mind: I look into the sunlit world and nightmares just as terrible are just as rife.

And what wicked things come from out the fog?
Staggering, hobbling, the never-dead rise from the bog.

Prowl they, the evil men that would do ill in the night,
Who would ravage and rape in their false might.

Up in the blackest night-sky, blacker forms glide and fly.
Onyx, wingèd abominations give out hell-sourced cries.

Admirer of the grisly scene, the moon gleams blood-red
And gives off its light to guide the man-wolves long unfed.

Those bumps and creeks that steal your unsettled sleep
Are the nightmares coming for you from shadowed deep.

Gelid hands thrust at your neck; fangs at your throat—
The fiends smell your sweat, they hunger for your soul.

Tonight all the monsters born of the dark are set free;
So be wary, for if caught, none shall answer your pleas.

M.M. — December MMXII