by J.A. Bennett
When slumber calls at the witching hour
they creep and crawl as the tolling bell
grants them by a necromantic power,
like master reaching from icy hell.
I walk alone through the garden of stone,
the damp grass cushions my tentative steps.
At first unknown, this, a garden of bone,
till a cold hand clasps from the dirty depths.
Dusty bits of earthy decay
shower around the creature's form.
Stinking stench clothed molding array
from its slumber by evil torn.
A soundless scream; a powerless cry,
skeletal maw grins a wicked gleam.
Horror bound my mind grasps for the lie -
Is it only a dream? ... It was only a dream.