Suppertime in the boneyard is a festive event.
The ghoul’s chamber is cold and dim
Guests arrive on a Sunday whim,
Glides in sibilance through the air,
Will reap the spoils of tethered share,
Driven by that reckless fire,
A dozen smoldering corpses on the pyre.
A gala in the darkest realm,
Where corpses rot at master’s helm,
The moral conscience of the great,
Wrapped upon scarred, blood-smeared slate,
The stench is foul in demon’s greed,
Rest there laurels on this foul deed.
Nice Share.
very nicely written
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