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The Cold Master's Feast
Once there was a man with seven Silver spoons
each one marked with a sliver of a crescent moon.
One spoon would stirs his tea.
Another was used to eat the Soup of Three.
The Third spoon appeared for those puddings found sweet.
The Fourth spoon was saved for the softest of meats.
And, when the moon went to sleep
with the Fifth spoon he would creep
along the dark avenues and tight shouldered alleys
underfoot, slick wet stones, old as bones tallied.
Like an alien star descending
on those uncomprehending,
the Sixth spoon shining bright
then would hover in the night,
intermittently misting
by the kiss of breath of those drifting.
Whose eyes would open wide
while bodies froze and voices hide
held by the Sixth spoon's might
and its damning light.
And, with a smile like a crescent moon
he'd draw forth from his coat the Seventh spoon,
and mad laughter and sad pleas would jump from the shadows like fleas
fleeing from the flames of something still unnamed
that in the night will reign.
And choking on screams unspoken
forcing closed eyes wide open
they try to run from his night mare's bray
yet it gallops too fast and snatches who pray.
It's crescent
the sickle
of a hardened black hoof...
In the morning, the remainder remark the dark's cold,
of a fear filled fevered night better untold.
Of ghostly apparitions that withered and rolled,
of the wailing of the children no one may hold.
Then, counting their numbers they noticed those gone,
open wide windows and bed covers torn,
red ruby puddles collected in bowls,
and long jagged gouges in the walls and the doors.
Once there was a man with seven silver spoons
each one marked with a sliver of a crescent moon.
One spoon would stirs his tea.
Another was used to eat the Soup of Three.
The Third spoon appeared for those puddings found sweet.
The Fourth spoon was saved for the softest of meats.
Three other spoons to make it complete
all implements
of the Cold Master's Feast.
