by Nick Gisburne
The pagan priestess seals the cellar door,
And slams the bolts securely into place.
Her potions, poured and puddled on the floor,
Could never fell the phantom she must face.
With charcoal, from behind a crooked ear,
She smears forbidden witchcraft on the walls.
Still scrawling, she is horrified to hear
The fiendish creature’s wailing cries and calls.
Descending, in the twitching of an eye
The door dissolves, a shadow in its place.
A demon, not of earth or sea or sky,
Its body has no form, its head no face.
Her signs enslave her husband with a hex.
He dreams, too drunk to pester her for sex.
