Night Terrors (a poem)

We snake thru the glorious night,

red lights shining in angry eyes

searching for honey that’s in the

blood-fields, the tundra that’s

thawing as spring comes upon us

like hell-fire visions –

“There’s no death here,” the preacher says,

in that assured tone of his,

screaming from the pulpit

to the hungry crowd,

spitting out words in fury,

the crowd ready to break this place apart,

to start again, launched into

the fourth dimension

beyond the reaches of mortal men –

“Rise up!” the preacher exclaims,

and we do, one by one,

moving in unison like a terrible,

slouching beast,

converging on the sacrificial man,

the moon blazing orange above,

thirsty for our hideous love

and terrors of the night

that have just begun.

(Photo by Gabriel on Unsplash)