Unholy Gale

In this room where books spill forth
from every shelf set head to toe,
inchambered by the oaken casks
of bookcase tales I’ve come to know,
I sit reposed in couraged fear,
content with snifter wafting near,
loath to let my cold dread show.

In torrent’s thunder, what can’t be seen
haunts in rushing ghastly breath,
thrums the shuttered windows ‘round,
whips the willow’s dance like death!
I shudder with this creaking room,
lost to malcontented gloom,
my courage thus my shibboleth.

Embers of the dying night
cling to evening’s fire in wane,
held by chimney’s banshee howls
that raise the dead to dance insane!
I, content to hold my nose
above the brandy’s sweet repose,
my thoughts disturbed to pain…

That conjure, in the wicked howls,
one million devils streaming ‘bout
my secret lair and sacred peace
in moaning, screaming, crying shout!
So sip the brandy slowly,
pray this devil’s gale, unholy,
retreats before the glass runs out.