On the night of August's naught
Saw the signs of Marybell's fraught
She had winced, whined, and henceforth thought
As they pulled her out from this life
The poor angels had dropped her soul
On accident, those cruel creatures,
Godly in their worldly disputes
Had played her spirit like a flute
Faces
The faces are all around me
I told them to keep themselves calm
The music is getting slower
I asked the conductor to stop
But he kept on playing, saying
That it would be too far long now
To turn around- And I thought so
That Marybell was just joking
When they said the angels had my
Moist, rotting, and dank body found.
YOU ARE READING
Incoherent Poetry from the Depths
Horror(The painting in the cover is by painter Nicola Samori) Do y'ever just wish to feel the chills of the ethereal down your spine? Have you wondered what life is like outside your material universe? Did you ever posit the idea, that a good bout of uns...
