A little Halloween poem, read by Dale Grothmann.
It lies beneath a sunless sky,
Deep in the entrails of a bog;
Gnarled willows hide it, lifting high
Their tortured arms; and never frog,
Nor newt, nor toad, nor dragonfly
Dare come within its deadly fog.
For evil spirits there are bound
Within its slime: an impious rune
They chant, nor is there other sound
But wicked whispers, out of tune.
As un-dead things that there lie drowned
Obscenely mutter to the moon.
The nightshade petals in its dank
And fetid vapors darkly bloom;
Black orchids on its silent bank
Insinuate a sick perfume;
And from its depths ooze up the rank
And gassy stenches of the tomb.
For potencies of witchcraft fell
Are buried in its slimy bed,
And deathly blasphemies that well
And bubble up with grisly dread.
From things that in its waters dwell—
From things that died, but are not dead.
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