Young Writers Society

I walk in the night, being the stalker of all evil and protector of all good
For here on this twilight hour- in this yard of graves- is my neighborhood.
The moon is full, but red as blood
And I stand still in the yard's mud
Terrified of what's stalking me as the prey
And seemingly timing every delay
Of my schedule during the Midnight Hour
That is my moment; my moment of power.
A cold hand seizes me from behind,
Then a cloth is placed to make me blind.
My clothes were torn off my skin and left me bare
And I shivered as I was caressed from my muddied hair.
A push was made from something hard
Between my legs without a bombard.[*]
As many pushes were made against me,
I was on my back until the clock called three.
When the worst was over, I was free from bond
And left alone as I listened to the spirits beyond
My range of hearing which was ten feet around
As I lay there weeping with my back on the ground.
The cloth was removed from my eyes by my host's hand-
My host the Next Pharaoh, Mistress of the land.
She called my disposition a classic rape,
A virtue-stealing act that no one can escape.
I remain in the Dragon's Den where I now sleep,
Like the dead below- sleep very deep.