Near the cave of Shadows, circled by stone,
on the feast of Samhain, on an altar, alone,
moonlight drips where my body is laid out
as an offering to save souls beyond the rift.
The Lord of the Guise prays for entrapped
souls to be released. The throng sing-song
chants for Samhain to accept their sacrifice
that souls may be reborn. As a blunt rock
is raised to smash down on my bones,
my daughter flaunts herself to the Lord,
his powers written in stone. Her allure
enthralls the blood-thirsty brood.
O Sacred Druid, heed not my daughter.
He relieves me from the cold slab of slaughter.
On this Eve of all Hallows. She plays her part
as the wolf-head shifts with passions inflamed
spreads her apart. The pools of her eyes
well bright as a bonfire. Never will he know
her true heart’s desire. I howl at the moon;
curse up a fiery creed, cry to spirits entombed.
Near the Cave of Shadows, my torment is on parade
my heart beats in Limbo in this no-man’s masquerade.
Philip Byrne, a Dubliner living in Westchester, New York, is done with clocking in and out, and makes up his day as he sees fit. He enjoys identifying birdsong on Merlin, marvels at spiders catching invasive spotted lanternflies, and constantly wonders what’s really happening on the dark side of the moon. In poems about love, grief and myth, he sometimes indulges in ghoulish humor as he writes. He has been the poetry editor for Inkwell Magazine out of Manhattanville University. Recent poems are in The Raven Review, the Beach Chair Press, The Soliloquist, The Westchester Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and Anthropocene.
Published 10/30/25