Restless nights, a mind in turmoil.
Spun too tight, it will not uncoil.
Wake the dead with countless screams.
Save me from hurting myself with dreams.
The stumbling corpses of buried rue.
Emerging at night to claim their due.
For every lie a pound of flesh to pay.
A drop of blood for every word we say.
The skeletons dance in their hiding place,
Rattling and jerking to invade our space.
Clamouring and yammering, a jittering symphony,
Shuddering to chimes of discord and disgrace.
To go back and change the past,
They gape ahead all aghast.
They laugh bile, chough and grate.
“You can’t go back through the gate.”
The shadow of the Wicker-man,
The scapegoat of old.
To be consumed for others guilt.
The oldest story told.
But your time will come.