Weather wicked blows so cold
Upon the crumbling walls of old
Madness whispers through the cracks
Into the mind of poor old Jack
To and fro, the lantern swings
Where luster withers, shadows cling
Sanguine flickers the beacon light
Life’s blood stipples the gelid night
Darkness comes and swallows whole
The last of Jack’s immortal soul
(photo courtesy of https://www.tinyrobotcreative.com/)
Jon Gray Lang.com 