The Banshee

In the silent cold of a gloomy night, instilling all with fear,
The banshee keens her mournful wail, for everyone to hear.
And all who listen to her dreadful sound, lie trembling in their bed,
And tightly do they pull the covers, above their worried head.
They fear her icy touch, and wonder if they’re cursed,
Their racing heart does beat so much, that surely it will burst.
Then like a wraith of grey, black smoke, from the shadows dim.
The banshee suddenly appears, and he knows she's there for him.
But after the evil deed is done, and the lamenting starts to fade,
What thoughts do we have of the banshee, as she goes upon her way?
Does her heart weigh heavy with sadness, and laden down with gloom
Or does she enjoy and relish her role, as the harbinger of doom?
So should we rightly shun the banshee, and lock her tightly away?
Or welcome her gladly, as today was not our day.
So just remember as we hate her, that the banshee has a heart,
Her craven soul was simply caused, by repeated practise of her art.
We are the ones who made her, who needed her to be,
So maybe we should learn to love, the one called banshee.