Four of them together.
A lonely little group.
An altar made of matches and an offering of soup.
.
In gloves and balaclavas
On a frosty autumn night…
And four of them – all four of them – they knew it was just right.
.
They lit a homemade candle with a wick of human hair
They chanted
(Pop-song parodies botched up beyond repair)
The smoky candle flame they used to heat the soup tin can…
And, on the verge of opening it
The fourth one saw the man.
.
The moon was full and globulous
that night
The air was cold
The man was just a silhouette
His edges rimmed with gold
.
The fourth one, who had seen him,
and had dropped the can of soup
Just stared at him
Then stared again
Then fist-pumped with a whoop
.
And didn't bother looking
For the tin (now in a ditch)
Just slapped his best mates' backs and shouted,
"Guys! You guys! It's Pitch!"
.
The man's eyes slid to fix on him
The whites' lit bright and glowing
His posture screamed 'superior, mysterious, all-knowing'
.
The candle hissed as it was culled
By all-consuming sand
As Pitch Black, man and silhouette,
All raised a black-nailed hand.
.
The whooping stopped abruptly
and the slapping stopped as well.
Pitch breathed the air of terror and then back-tracked at the smell…
.
The four of them were adults
It was weird: he'd known to start,
But this hadn't been expected
This was only fear in part…
.
He blinked and tried to process it.
His form went slack and still.
A healthy dose of fear…
plus …fun?
Not horror but… a thrill?]
.
He turned to face the little group
all grinning mad and wild
He asked them how they'd known him and they answered,
"As a child."
.
He questioned them on topics
Such as Heaven, Earth and Hell
And added in a quiz
Regarding movie choice as well
.
And by the time they parted ways
They all were happy men.
.
Four terror-junkies on a high
.
And Pitch with hope again.