The Banshee

The Banshee, cry wretchedly...of justice. Their clogg-ed streams, of moss and peet...hold tears, that can never be counted. There is nay one, here...knows, their wailing is upon the moor...for something lost. The clean air...children born, untouched by harm...what moon and star cast down, can nay be cleaned, for never were, and is the end of us...here. If you know well, of which I speak...then ye be one, who should na tread upon the moor...the Banshee, fain...to drag ye wee sad balls to hell, for what ye done...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: paranormal-news.ru, Banshee