Behind Our Studio...

A body
Cold and grey
Prone in the shadow of an old oak tree
Above blackened boughs
Crows encircle
As mist descends
First in wisps
Through knotted hair, and tangled limbs
Then in creeping, grasping tendrils
Upwards
Toward his face-
Oh, god! That face
That is shrunken and sallow
Hideous, hollow
The life torn out
In silent screams
Through empty sockets
And crinkling flesh
Now rotting upon the gutter’s edge
And yet-
These horrors are pale
Dim and fleeting
For lurking deep
Down and dark
In the dead man’s pocket
An abomination lies
Monstrous
Unspeakable
And gnawing
Gnawing at my sanity
Like rats!
Malnourished
On fetid bones
In blackened rooms
And dancing
Ghastly on the surface
Of the ivory cards
That bore his name
In black
Comic
Sans