WHERE THE BALLS OF HELL HANG LOW
You pull the strings the puppet moves
and takes you to the darkest path
where blood’s avenged by blood that’s spilt
and flows to where the dead lie still.
As ravens caw to moaning winds
with no melodic charm displayed
their throated song – a mournful hymn
and fear alone becomes the wraith,
In intervals of quietude
within the light of day revealed
the scabs of memory are plucked
when twilight interregnum rules.