The Turning

Winter of rope, where did you go? 

Somewhere over the pines, or buried below? 

Dig up this ditch, climb in it slow 

Dirt-clutching hair, kept from the mold. 

Eyes of White Death

Necrotically open

Draining the life, 

Coffin lid eerily closes. 

Lady of Feast – at the side of the road, 

A few tokens lain for the stygian to row them. 

From hunger and sleep, a hole slowly opens 

Two corpses rest, fresh but still frozen. 

With earth in their mouths and blood on their clothing 

They sleep with the worms 'til nite touches sunset

The sun runs away, far from their feeding.