They speak of cloven hoof prints
Found in the dirt
In hushed conversation
That and much worse
Ask the boy what he saw
Chased through moonlit fields
And what they found in the house
Ask about the bones
In the hubris of daylight
These cemetery trees
Feed on the ancient dead
Sundwellers on my tomb
Speak of things best left unsaid
The wind whispers through the window overhead
If memories of faces
Trapped in the glass
Survive through the centuries
What of the unseen?
In the swirl of a thousand shapes
I writhe
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