Bab 3: Under the Crimson Night
Ghost the horse hoof
Of a tripper,
In midst of stale sky
And frowning forest.
Creak, the crack of dead leaves
And mournful wood howls.
Against the frown of trunks
Lies an inky lodge.
Whom gates cry when push open.
Tripper knocks the ripped door
That flings lifeless,
Revealing fog like murk
And creeps of longed bugs.
He pants as thunder cremates sky,
And shudder when floor squall by leather boot.
Wings flapped over crimson moon,
And windows let just the light not die.
He trailed in with heart in hand.
Welcoming him, was rugged bed,
And blood-red bedsheet,
Which he pulled over And,
Swarmed bugs of dozen.
Fright! He nabbed for escape,
But stuck in winding halls
And mournful supper of bloodshot stairs.
He cried and yanked every door,
And at sudden such door, his heart tore!
Grieve skeleton chained to side wall,
And flies digesting last bits of flesh,
He screamed and ran, but then jerked another door
And vicious shadows plunged his heart.
It shook and he realised
That it is his horse.
For he rode it and
Promised to never trip,
For if he survived.
PERTIMBANGAN PENCIPTA 
Dragonlord3
Dragonlord3 Do you like scary books or movies? Heck I DO!