Master of Myth

Midnight hair, so sleek and fair
with eyes so baleful and raw.
A lordly countenance does he bear,
Graced with a vindictive, grinning maw.
Bringer of omens both evil and benign,
True sovereign of legend is he.
A foreboding sight in Western lore,
Yet in ancient Egypt, a deity.

He was the most silent of sufferers
For when the Plague began,
It took naught to invoke the wrath
Of a superstitious clan.
Amid the carnage of the Black Death
Rose one accordant cry:
"Light the pyres, burn them all,
The heathens all must die!"

At the strike of the witching hour,
Into a boiling cauldron he was thrown
By a heartless voodoo conjurer
To procure his magic bone.

Celtic myth is his domain,
Haunted by the spectral cait sith
And the mountains of Dublin menaced
By the phantom of Killakee.

Nightfall is his sanctum
For in darkness he is content.
Long has he remained the core
Of many a storyteller's lament.

He is a living silhouette
The emblem of All Hallows Eve.
Should he ever cross your path
You are fortunate indeed.
If at night, you glance outside
And discern two eyes of gold
The Master of Myth has chosen you,
And your luck shall increase tenfold.