A Haunting, Abbreviated

An owl screeches

at the seams.

The darkened corners

of the broken tree house 

bellow a grumbling,

“This, 

you will regret.”

Machinations

of a yesterday bird,

scratches at the wall.

A hero called forth,

no longer any song,

to ring in the bright North,

a melody of wrongs

“Go get your ghosts,

and make way for 

a demon moon;

For you can’t forsake

the storm;

a terror,

abbreviated:

This,

And this no more.”