at night
in the too few star lit black
the sound of the thing
oozes guttural through
valley fissures
where the pines
and gnarled woods
of my smallest memories
once stood
an echoed howl
ripping through
membranes of air
mist severed in half
over the
emerald trickling creek
unforgiving is the
coming horror
a bloody gush of
growling voices
a hellish
wet cave cacophony
sweeping luster into mossy stones
the church steeple is burning
bloody swirl in the baptismal pool
the dead rise
looking a fright
in their sunday best
the lights coming up the drive
will not save you
no hope for the barn animals
locked up tight
the psalm chants
and quilt
are all that remain to sooth you
as the window glass shatters
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