The Harpy
The harpy in abysmal stance,
Directing an ungodly glace,
Unto the moon’s candescent disc,
The north wind hitting brisk.
The purple aether coldly spread,
Above the harpy’s haggard head,
The shadows down below as ghosts,
Like dark, satanic hosts.
The forest dreary in the mist,
As otherworldly phantoms twist,
Throughout the enigmatic trees,
Like banshees on the breeze.
Her call is mournful o’er the land,
Her plaintive voice a wry demand,
To lift the curse from out the world,
In bitter hexes hurled.
Her talons gripping on the stump,
Her hair a dark, bedraggled clump,
Her wings in wicked darkness hung,
As lonely songs are sung.
The echoes through the awful vale,
Below the moonlight hitting pale,
The timbre deep, so mournful too,
Eternity in view.
Her hunger a vampiric pall,
Depleting her of wherewithal,
The hunger driving every cry,
Below the barren sky.
An enervating emptiness,
Below Diana’s cold caress,
The heavens like a doleful dirge,
As stricken feelings surge.
The moon! Her madness like a drug!
Prodigious fair! Prodigious smug!
As in my loneliness I sing,
And loud petitions bring.
Release me out this fearful form!
Accursedness an endless storm!
A hunger to negate the will!
As banshees clamour shrill!
The hunger — such an awful weight!
A hex that dost excoriate!
Tis fearful I anticipate,
The ghosts from Sheol’s gate!
Release me, by this sorry tune!
Release me into heaven’s boon!
Release me from the wights that dwell,
Within this shattered hell!
…the harpy sings anon, tonight,
Below the wretched heavens sight,
Bereavement is the curse that clings,
And this is why she sings…
🌕
