Hues of slumber

The darkness dank and creeping so

reaching in to scratch the soul

mists from deep within the soil;

drags the moist and undead limb.

 

Standing tall the orchard moans

cracking Earth dark undertones

writhing cries from the witchy crones;

tapping the red mans horn.

 

These are the night of the flitting dream

where the thick of dark in horror scream

consciousness caught in a fluttering stream;

as a fly, is to the web.

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