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Margaret tlacobs

It is evening.
Embers glowing in nocturnal reproach;

Turn swiftly - There ... the sound of moonlit irony
Laughing like gunfire above the placid landscape's
Whimsical chatter. . .
,. Here, in the ether primeval, some sort of evil mask
/ Grins apace, bringing bedlam

From without. . .
And chaos creeps into the glade,
Shadows haunt and startle,
Miscreant spirits mock the day
And tease at my wounds, flitting malicious
Through the pallid haze. . .

Then, from beyond this mist sublime a long figure
Appears, looming long, morose, undaunted;
In maudlin dusky benevolence he beckons, this teary stranger.

Chris Williams

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