The Crypt Pulses Softly

I hear the echoes through the ground, the sound of winter’s wind.

I taste the grime that lines my teeth, and see the shadows bend.

I smell the earth, the worms, the moss, that lays atop my chest.

Tonight I rest my weary head and give sweet dreams my best.

“Cry not,” I say “for I must go” parting ever swiftly,

but now I see that while I hoped, my journey home shall never come.

The sorrows of my wasted days make rhythms ever softly.

My voice makes song in time with those of whom I know no sum.

How confidently I journeyed forth, through darkness and through mist,

That I should find a pathway north, to forests in moonlight shown.

To find myself among fair beauties, the lushes lips that had been kissed,

Despite myself did follow blindly down to caverns far unknown.

“Come with us” they mused “Come hither rest among the willow’s leaves.”

And surely madness controlled my eyes as pillars turned to trees.

Among the mushrooms, grass, and lichen I rest my weary head,

But as my sight soon did deceive me I should have been found dead.

The meadow I thought may make a bed now buried me in its folds

The air did shake and tremor slow as light shown ever faint.

I do not know what shadow I saw that night I was asleep,

nor thoughts that plagued such restless dreams to burry me so deep.

The ravens caw that woke me up, showed a rooster in its place

Soft, soft, it was only a dream, but still the crypt pulses softly.