Children of The Well

I hear the children crying

at the bottom of the well.

In hot and chafing chains they march,

and journey into hell.

And on the misty hilltop starts

the ringing of the bell.

The children slowly change to creatures

of a wicked spell.

They snarl and growl and claw and bite

with every tolling knell.

A cloud of death surrounds them

with a rotten carrion smell.

To a pagan god they’re praying

to be free but they’re all staying.

Yes, I hear the children baying

at the bottom of the well.

My Childhood Nightmare Wants a Kiss

My childhood nightmare wants a kiss.

He would not be denied.

He chased me ‘cross the bitter winter sea

with rolling tide.

He chased me through the wooded hills

and though I tried to hide,

he wanted it so badly that he

hunted with a pride.

He chased me down from northern climes

into the humid south.

“Come here, my child!” he yelled downhill,

“and give me your sweet mouth!”

He chased me from exotic east

to more pedantic west.

He chased til I could run no more

and granted me no rest.

And so I turned to face him,

ragged, dirty, out of breath.

His face was moonlit, shining eyes

a glazed, glaring eldreth.

My childhood nightmare got the kiss

he would not be denied,

and as he touched my cheek he wiped

the dark, sad tears I cried.

I took his face in hands of love

and kissed him.

And he died.