In the realms of cinematic fate,
There lies a film, a woeful state,
"The Harbringer," its name proclaimed,
A tale of darkness, poorly framed.

A man, burdened with a wicked charm,
A talisman of death, bringing harm,
Made a pact with the devil's might,
To orchestrate a morbid plight.

But alas! The execution fails,
As the actors stumble, their skill impales,
Their performances, like wilted flowers,
Conveying naught but lifeless hours.

The plot, a tapestry of gaping holes,
Confusion reigns, as logic folds,
A labyrinth of inconsistencies,
Leaving viewers lost in dissonance.

And as we gaze upon the screen,
Cinematography, once pristine,
Now dulled, devoid of visual grace,
Leaving emptiness in every space.

"The Harbringer," an unfortunate plight,
A contender for the worst in sight,
Its flaws apparent, impossible to hide,
A tragic tale of artistic suicide.

So let us mourn this failed endeavor,
A haunting relic that shall not sever,
The memories of its dismal mark,
The worst of poems, born in the dark.






Regenerate response