Tuesday, January 25, 2011


This one was an entry in a writing challenge: to incorporate the words mangy werewolf  and vampire into a composition.
His form outlined by a silver moon,
a mangy werewolf waits;
upon a trail of bodies strewn
by this keeper of the gates.
Sinews coiled to spring upon
the coachman unaware;
whose trek this night toward Avalon
goes by the werewolf's lair.

Of Avalon, the story goes:
there lies in this estate
of the dreaded Satan, Prince of Woes,
a beast locked in a crate.
And word amongst the villagers
makes mention of the times
when fortune-seeking pillagers
paid dearly for their crimes.

Within the gates of Avalon,
there also stands a tower;
where, legend has it, Satan's Spawn
awakes each midnight hour.
Of spectral visage seldom seen,
it walks the parapet;
on foggy mists of bilious green
to challenge any threat.

At lightning speed the werewolf strikes,
and Coachman's head impales;
with claws like sharpened railroad spikes,
and teeth like ivory nails.
He commandeers the wayward coach
through the Gates of Avalon;
and from the tower, his approach
is seen by Satan's spawn.

Werewolf lets loose a piercing howl
and leaps upon the tower;
The Spawn of Satan, with a scowl,
unleashes Hades' power.
The mangy werewolf's eyes reflect
the brimstone and hell-fire,
that the eyes of Satan's Spawn project
at the crate of His Vampire.

Sulfuric sparks and molten lead
explode out from the crate;
and from within comes the Undead
to seal the werewolf's fate.
The Vampire soars on fiendish wings
across the blackened night;
and from the pits of Hell he brings
the whole of Satan's might.

The werewolf slumps with mouth agape,
and claws ungiving earth;
The vampire, swathed in Satan's cape,
gives Werewolf all he's worth.
 He lunges forth and sinks his teeth
into the werewolf's throat;
And casts the helpless prey beneath,
into a fiery moat.

As Hades' flames consume the beast,
then slowly flicker out;
One more joins Avalon's deceased,
now free to mill about.
And when the tale is told in town
of the estate's most recent guest,
they'll drink a toast to his renown
and pray he's laid to rest.

The lights are out in Avalon;
tonight there's only moon
and stars that town-folk gaze upon
each time the shadows croon.
For the nights at Avalon Estate
are filled with hellish psalms;
sung by spirits watching at the gate
amidst undeadly calm.

©2010 R.J. Gardner - All Rights Reserved

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