Fold

The misty luminescence of a January moon
immerses me in portents of despair that all too soon
will make me rue the day I drank the bitterest libation
to mark that dismal moment of my excommunication.

No wick can wipe the wickedness away
No hymn can offer harmony that soothes
No staff can staunch the wounds from those who prey
as whispers scurry forth from curtained booths
and shadows dominate the drafty aisles
imbued with incense of demonic wiles.