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:
"Kill them, hang them, burn them all,
The witches 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 terror 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,
This 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.