I wrote this prose in 1995 - it just came to me in a flash of inspiration and my pen flowed effortlessly across the paper.  Completed in a couple of hours, I consider this to be my best work (and, of course, I retain the copyright for it!)

  (c) Weatherwax 1995

The inked shadows of a moon-bereft night,

Cloak the putrefied figure of Satan's prize imp,

As he watches me staggering, lost in the graveyard of life,

And crows at the pathetic light of my solitary torch.

I labour on blinkered; unaware of the shadow's regard,

The scars of my life lying heavily upon the surface of my soul,

Like shackles they score on my heart; squeezing it dry,

Tormented, I fight back and hold on to my last preserved drop of hope.

The cloaked Mephisto crouches on a wasted tombstone,

Omnipotent; Triumphantly harvesting my discontented ambition,

Laying waste to my dreams, he scatters them gleefully underfoot,

Contemptably chortling as he stamps on the embers of my life.

The Reaper of Dreams (as the beast is renowned) surveys the ashes,

With drawn, fetid arms he reaches up into the darkness in worship,

A plagued wail fills the oppressive gloom as he offers his sacrifice.

The creature cackles at the tombstone upon which he perches -

My name is upon it; my time is nigh.

The crushing reverberation of wing-beats engorges the hushed midnight,

The winds shriek and pluck at my essence in dissent; the ashes scatter.

I stumble in the ensuing bewilderment and fall to my knees in defeat,

A failure; a miscarriage in life; an abortion.

I raise my cloistered torch of hope heavenward and contemplate the absent nigrescence,

I search for my God; my deity; my saviour.

My bloodied, wracked face lifts lamentably as my lips beg relief,

The light illuminates the fiend as it circles, vulture-like above my head,

My litany grows more intense as the beast dives upon me,

Talons unsheathe and reach out to me, impatient to taste my flesh.

I feel the rancid breath hot on my face - has my God forsaken me?

Like a rifle-shot into the ebony, another torch joins mine,

Alone they are worthless, but together they form a beacon.

The warlock shrieks in agony and recoils in disgust; light burning his flesh,

Dragging his offensive carcass skyward he retreats to his sepulchre,

Where he licks his wounds, moaning in vexation at the loss of his prize.

A hand reaches out of the gloom and encapsulates my own,

Immediately the darkness is gone; the air is still and sweet,

The sun, for so long absent from my life, warms my iced body; and I welcome it.

The air resonates with nature's calls as creature voices join in chorus,

We look at each other, my saviour and I, and smile our understanding,

A man and a woman; mere mortals; Alone we are worthless,

But not together; Together we can conquer the very beasts of darkness.

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