In Darkest night, Cultists frolic outside:

“Oh great and green spaghetti monster, give us your power.”
Entreating primordial entity for dark shower
The chants may vary, language exotic, but not the core
The dance and trance, sanguine worship, black robed fancy dress whores
Some sing to Cthulu from greed, some from despair, some from fear
Some from a need for recognition, to mark they’ve been here
Like a dog trying to mark his territory, they piss
And it stinks of chimeras, made from the deep, dark Abyss
The one ‘Who is like God?’ stands stalwart in defence.

In Deepest Night, I cower inside:

In my house that is not my home, there is dark night
In my house that is not my home, there is moonlight

The distorted spirits still dance for war, raging
Long faced monkey donkey, giant man pig, duck goat
Vile energies given form by bad men and women.

The angel continues his war waging
I watch the demons turn to motes
A few die, good riddance!

Still too many
Demons lurking
In house-not-home
Michael
Fights on
Until battle is done
Until the Spirit War is won

Hail Michael, as brilliant as the Sun, and thank you for constant intercession.

Note: Cthulu, in this poem, represents promises of power of any kind (not necessarily ‘occult’), in exchange for the empathetic traits that make us human.

Also, some places just give off bad vibes. Okay for a visit, not nice to stay in.

I had intended to write a light, comedic piece when I began this one, two nights ago