The Exorcism of Faeries

Old Irish Poem

The bell it tolls,

Its song eerie,

Twisting my velvet bones.

Every hour, it rings.

A reminder that it’s almost time.

Time for the man in coats of moonrise

to begin his lurking.

Seven. . .eight. . .nine it tolls.

I no longer attempt to hide.

Hiding doesn’t suit me, anyway.