Howling Banshees

Howling Banshees                                   April 23, 2011

Walking along the mountain highs,

The brisk easterly winds blow,

Calling me, screaming like banshees,

That one day, one day soon,

I will most assuredly die.

The wick of my lantern burns out;

It is dark, and I "breathe in the night."

The night...ah yes.  The symbol of death.

The symbol of finality.

We drink until we drop over

From sheer stupidity.

At least that's what I'm doing.

I'm pretty damn numb right now.

I am not compelled to return to the homestead.

No.  Instead, I remain in the cool night air,

Where those banshees howl and howl,

Causing me to unfurl in their cross hairs

Like that wick in the lantern,

Or, more appropriately,

Like one of those Turkish things,

You know, the whirling dervish?

I can barely stand.

I hike further up the mountain.

The banshee winds call me louder.

At the top is Widow's Peak.

I hear bagpipes and an Irish harp

Playing in dueling fashion in the distance.

I still have that lantern,

And it still has its oil.

It isn't soap, but it will do.

Time for a quick bath. Ah!

And that will do the trick.

The match lights up;

Thy flames are quick to engulf me!

Thus, I will take flight

As a crashing firebird in the night.