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Mr. Grim

Tags: dark

Out on the rooftop
the reaper was peeping
with blood on his mind.
While down the chimney fall
the mice were sleeping
dreaming of cheese,
and Roquefort dressing.

Every night was Christmas
for Mr. Grim,
and his eight tiny curmudgeons.

Awakening and rising
sitting straight-up in bed
feeling the shakes
of the frigid gloom.
Perhaps it was just...

Quicker than a flicker
with a finger dripping flesh,
and a scent of carrion.
Pressing it against my lips,
and whispering, "Shhh."

As a wafture of cold air
found the cracks in the wall.
A wall papered in valor
and bones of skeletons hung
with scriptures for the dead.
Perhaps it was just...

Every night was Christmas
for Mr. Grim,
and his eight tiny curmudgeons.

"It's me, your old friend Obituarius.
Caron is ferrying me across
distilled waters on the rocks.  
I just thought I would drop in,
and turn your lips blue.
Embalming you with chicken soup.

 

 

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