Nightmare Poetry

The old crone warns to turn away

But our journey lies along the way. 

This is the place that’s off the book. 

Where the folks all wear the Innsmouth look. 

Streets possessed by the ghosts of homes,

In the gloaming shade they rear like tombs. 

This is the place of breathing fear,

Where panes draw veils when death draws near. 

The horse-drawn-cart wight smacks the whip. 

And the dead tread tracks with quivering lip. 

This is the place where the hooves scar stone,

Bellows breathe thin and the cattle cut bone. 

Ruins sprawl on a dry outcrop;

Cracks in the castles climb then stop. 

This is the place where the gibbet swings,

Where the phantoms wail and the banshees sing. 

Skeleton branches pray in the flash

Where cackling clouds spawn winds that lash. 

This is the place where the trees lean slant,

Where the crops grow scarce and the water scant. 

This is the place where we must dwell —

For the dead are feared and the dead are fell —

And wait for our guide at the waxing woe

To be drawn to abide with the damned below.