[POEM]

The Warlock's Pet

Red gloves, dirty red gloves
slowly rise from below the torn robes.
The tip of the fingers together rendered
they part leaving the right hand centered.
The left snaps three times
the chains, the tiny bell on the crown chimes.

Smoke wooshes, erupts and cascades from the dirty boots
they swirl and form a sign at the roots.
Bones crack, the floor cracks
blood seeps out marking the demon's tracks.
So it begins, the moonlit nightly rounds
the screams end, two breaths remain the only sounds.