Eerie sounds present themselves, on such a night as this.
Beneath the ample harvest moon, they wander in the mist,
creeping as they lick the hairs, while tingling up your spine.
Trembling hands serve not well, withering courage, on the vine.
Darkened forest shadows splinter moonbeam’s glow, as figments infiltrate your mind.
Allocate the fleshy curtains to drape around your eyes, entice your ears to find,
the way to Grandma’s house. You could follow the winding path, even if you’re blind.
Smell the hemlock as you pass the mushroom patch, beyond the melon’s rotting rind.
Think naught, nor linger long, on the vicious creatures,
seeking a nocturnal meal, nor of their matted furriness, nor claws, nor pointy teeth,
though they are quite real. Remember the bony bones, protruding from the ooze that
once you thought were logs. Strain to listen wisely, for the bubbling methane,
as you near the putrid bogs.
Hasten from rock to rock, whilst skipping across the stream,
lest eerie eels pull you down and make you want to scream.
Wake not the Maya-Roona; you know her from your dream,
the serpent from the quagmire with reddish eyes that gleam.
Do not let fall your shield, neither dare to shed a tear,
and do not mislay the gift, you brought for granny dear.
Keep your wits about you and your cutlass at your side,
for now you’re in the open, with no safe place to hide.
Each hungry creature’s eyes are, upon your pulsing throat.
Although you’re running faster, it’s not the time to gloat.
Sly old Maya-Roona slithers, near your Granny’s bed,
you can only kill her, when your sword removes her head.
Do not tarry, listening to, her impassioned hiss. Verily, she’s craving more,
than just a little kiss. When you draw close to Granny, look round about again.
Be sure it’s your dear Granny, not Maya-Roona’s grin.
She overshadows your mind, while spinning endless lies, comprehension left behind,
beneath red ember eyes. Be you most certain to note, the number of the day.
Three days, centered on the thirteenth, Granny goes away.
What is it Granny does here to fill her deepest needs?
You’ve heard the horrid stories, accounts of evil deeds.
Haven’t you wondered why, Granny lives in forest deep,
or of your excursions, where monsters do surely creep?
Think back to lore about, Maya-Roona’s evil ways.
Recollect the accounting of Maya-Roona’s days.
Centered on the thirteenth, Maya-Roona comes for prey.
Granny, is the Maya-Roona, so the people say.
© Valormore De Plume
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Who are you? Are you a brave knight? A warrior brandishing your sword, ready for battle. Are you a dreamer? Away with the fairies, losing count of fireflies whilst searching for Neverland. A goth? Who feels right at home with the monsters hiding under the bed, who loves to dance a dervish with the devil on the stroke of midnight. Or perhaps you are a dragon-slayer? Or a soul snatcher? Basking in the heat of an eternal flame. Or maybe you’re a witch? Hiding deep in the woods, practicing dark arts beneath the light of a full moon.
L.J. Diaz, Author of Catching Snowflakes
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