poetry
1 min
The Owl
Evan Smith
With ire his eye, his raise'd brow
Looks from on high and waits for now
For Rat or Mouse, the woodland crew.
To raise his head and in so do
Become a meal, a light dessert
A living thing so soon inert.
The spotlight searching land and sky
A silent stalking spector spies.
His eyes a pot of bubbling oil
His horns mark the sorcerer
Flame from hell; a heart to boil
Spirits scream "the torturer"
But Oh His eyes.
His eyes. His eyes.
Medusa sitting petrified.
The searchlight stops
And in its jaundice glow must see
A soul; frightened white of leprosy
Descending cacophony of silence
Satin's spell is seen so; eyeless.
With slashing scythe and beating flail
The wheat from chaff, a twitching tail
Beware. Beware. Beware those eyes.
Those cold and killer, Yellow eyes.
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