The cathedral is silent
Except for the clanging of bells
The pointy-hatted witches
Shake them incessantly, never-ending
As a nightmare, ready to be slain,
Slides from the sky like a slimy slug
Each piece, one by one, falling down
Until its amorphous body
Consumes the ground, writhing and whipping

The Hunter, weary in their battles,
Looks up with reverence, then smirks
Their dirk is extended, there is no pretending
As the pellet is gorged, the skin explodes with hair
And there's a howl which escapes parched lips
Before the slashes commence, digging deep
Into the sins of yesterday, fighting in blood moon's eye

The squelches sound egregious
The bells are too loud
The flying limbs flail through the air
And eventually the nightmare, staring down
At its maker, its executioner, collapses
And evaporates in the light of the gibbous moon