Thursday, 17 March 2016

The Laird of Dungorth | A Horror Poem by Michael Whitehouse



Your cities will crumble;
Diseased covered glens
The strong falter, stumble
At the end times of men

And the sky rot like flesh,
Torn, gristle and grim
Soil poisoned, and twisted
An unnatural hymn

No reason be spoken
No hope found in sight
Goodness be broken
Love ripped, turned to blight

Rise bitter and heartless
Cold shivers, and cough
He approaches from darkness
The Laird of Dungorth

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