The Owl and The Biter

On this nightfall, cold and dreary

I must write while weak and weary;

Hoping to find the words that will

Go from pen to paper, interrupted by a sudden trill;

Looking from my wooden chair,

Perched across the room as light as air;

An old stuffed owl, crooked and bent

The beak cracked closed, the eyes absent;

I look upon the gruesome visage,

Daring myself to claim mirage;

When out of the night and through the room

A hollow hooting did come bloom;

Staring with disbelief,

I watched as the owl shook like a leaf;

With no eyes, feathers gone missing,

This creature clacking and hissing

Did step out across its branch,

To curl talon and begin to cranch;

Bobbing its head, from side to side

This undead birds eyeless glare seemed to chide

“Get to work,” it seemed to say

“You have all night till coming day.”

“What is the hurry, if I dare ask?”

My voice wavering, thoughts of this difficult task

Pounding within my head, aching and shivering

My body quivered and jittered as if twitching.

The owl stooped, spreading rotten wings out low

“Forsooth, the wind shall blow,

And all who claim to be a writer

Will have to prove it or become the Biter.”

“The Biter? Who is that?” I dared to ask

The owl let loose a barking laugh

“The Biter is one who crawls through the night,

Seeking out the talentless hacks to give a fright.

Should they prove to be completely untended,

Then the Biter will bite beyond what can be mended.”

I turn back around, putting pen to paper,

Where I begin writing of love and loss and daring capers;

The owl settled back, lifeless once more

As a hesitant scratching ceased at my door