Chthonic Nights: Screams Of The Tamp-Man

Claws ripping.

Shredding pine splinters buried under beds,

Wasting beneath nails.

Hammering pounds of dirt on the backs —

Of spades.

Secrets laid —

Planted like bulbs of lilies,

Six measurements below.

Will rest come weightlessly tonight,

Awaiting decadent blooms,

Bleached like ivory stone?

Or will they taint the orchard’s soil?

Corruption grasping hold as liquefying tendrils seep,

A tarry sludge infecting a disquiet plot.

Mother refusing the offerings,

A swollen coffer of unflicking tongues.

An upwelling of bones,

Tenacious flesh still gripping,

A violent shudder from underfoot,

Sundering the silence of the dead night.

War —

Thrums from the deep.

Sequestered in tangles of earthy ligaments,

A root cellar of murky crystal,

With no seer.

Polished silver rises,

An emergence —

Of flies.