Musty, dank, and clammy cold
furtive shadows lurk, dancing
in the twilight. Mists enfold
ancient cases, sinking, barely standing.
A catalogue of self, hidden within this fold
of brainy bog. History decomposing.
Danger and pain await within.
The Traveler must be stealthy, must be wary,
lest they be led astray again
by the will-o’-the-wisp and the dancing fairy.
Come upon a pilgrim past, and mark their deathly grin,
a grim reminder lest you ever seek to tarry.
Be wise and listen to my words
as I tell you of the lady grim.
Her beauty and her grace have ruined many lords,
bewitched by her form, svelte and trim.
Any man will gladly join her ghostly hordes,
though they be ripped limb from limb.
Our lady prowls these fuming halls,
seeking no prey, but sparing no man
who dares answer her mourning calls.
The one whom she adored left this lan’
long ago and past even her recall,
Death of love, this bog-mire began.
The overwhelming stench of decay
has eaten the flesh from her face,
and despair has well done its part to flay
her soul from her breast, and erase
the compassion she used to display.
Leaving only lust, and love debase.
Spoiled memories of love
crowd every drifting shelf.
Rot spilling down from memoirs above
adding ever, more filth to this bubbling piece of self.
What used to be a thriving treasure trove
of memories, is now, deplorably beyond any help.
People of wisdom and spirit
will avoid this library of bog and hell,
opting for life and all that comes with it.
Disregard the mire’s putrescent smell
you must pass by the Lady’s horrid pit
unless, you’re already under her spell.