Perched along a limb
in the darkening, mercurial eve,
the trickster hovers in mania.

Wingspan iridescent in the shadows,
he stands sharp in his observation
blending in to the dark night.

An indomitable eye in focus,
unceasing with his hoarse call -
Bitter and biting in sound.

He balefully takes flight
gliding over his bounteous kingdom,
secure in the wily, swindling con.

A harbinger of evil,
an omen follows his glide:
the reaper is soon to follow.

The sudden silence provokes
a chill down the spine
curling 'round in stirring fright.

Taking a warlike stance,
he circles over his unsuspecting prey.
Venomous in his feast and descent.

A scythe, sharpened steel,
gripped tightly in bloodless hands;
a lone cloaked being whispers commands.

Rumbles strike open the dirt
in the graveyard beside the oak.
Silhouettes manifest, crawling through the night.

The trickster surveys the siege,
as screams rent through the sky.
The eve of madness is upon us.