Witches’ evil laughter, the crows cry caw,
iciness of hoodlums, lame alibi…
circles of the coven, faces stoic,
keepers of the flame to burn away luck.
Enough of it to darken the sun’s face,
dank as farmhouse cellars in winter scold.
Cancerous blood trail staining white Arctic,
ominous screech of mad dancing psycho,
marauding malcontents slaying the calm,
energetic eviscerating tribe.
Smiting well-being, apathetic sass.
Onerous the task, evil’s to and fro
upon existence’s widespread milieu,
regaining good’s control can seem afar.
Whipping Siberian coldness, deep snow;
anvils of hate tossed in love’s arena:
yet civilized is man, reason handy.
Writer’s Cramp Co-Winner
A double acrostic of, "Wicked Comes Our Way."