When a child, small and frail,
Unto his mother’s eyes did hail,
Sounds of fear caught within
A throat that sayeth his every whim.
Against a panel of warm wood
The child’s father did there stood,
A glass of wine in hand upraised
As to the ancient god he praised.
And all that night the dark kept bay,
Until greeted by light of day.
Pillows strewn across his room,
The hushed sound of fallen broom.
The child’s captor, cloaked in night
Ignore the pleas of child’s fright.
Swept into husband’s arms she cries
Hushed sobs till tears he dries
The losing of her only son,
To that monstrous and evil one.
He swears revenge ‘pon captor’s soul
In dead of night they’ll take their toll.
© Copyright 2016 AshenhartKrie. All rights reserved.
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