The Exorcist

The Exorcist

In a pew the pewed sands do feel a chill,
A whispered creak in the vaulted nave,
The altar’s wax‑thin light seems to spill
Its sacred fire upon a man who dares not brave.

Father Karras, with his pen in hand,
Stands within the dim, where candle‑lace
Faces the demon of a thatched land,
Its breath a storm that seeks to erase.

The Latin incantations, soft and grim,
Ring out against the rattling veil,
While the choir, though stilled, begins again
To stitch the night with holy recall.

Outside, the neighbourhood hears a hiss,
An endless wind of trembling dread;
Inside, the priest knows that the abyss
Is but a mirror of what’s inside his head.

And so the old stone walls hold the breath,
A testimony of faith and fear.
The exorcist whispers against the death
Of the darkness that has always been near.