"So this is what's called 'Witching Hour'?"
I heard a daemon scoff.
I checked my watch and smiled a smile,
He was a minute off.
This little angry red thing,
With horns and fangs so red...
Had no idea in a moment,
What would come instead.
The skies would turn to mottled grey,
The moon would cease to shine.
And in a flash of blinding light,
The planets might aline.
The witches would come shrieking in,
Their skin a bumpy face.
The daemon should be shuddering,
And put down in his place.
And if he's lucky, he'll survive,
Maybe three limbs down.
The less-than-lucky? They're a sight,
When the witches come to town.
Want to join the conversation? Sign in to leave a comment.