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Secrets of a dark and impious kind


In the silent times of dreaming

when our daytime eyes are blind,

in some crevice of the body,

in some corner of the mind,

we may catch a glimpse of secrets

of a dark and impious kind.



Shadows flit across the landscape

into hollows of despair;

something lies in wait for victuals

in the blackness of its lair,

while a yellow mist sits heavy

on the dank and fetid air;


The sun at noon bleeds in the sky,

a dull and leaden red;

the thing that preyed on others

shall not again be fed.

Now nothing moves or breathes or lives;

the land itself is dead.



There is an ancient prophecy

that, when the earth was slain,

a wind arose from nowhere

over mountain, valley, plain,

and, through the hope the wind brought, fell

the solace of the rain.


It soothed the acrid soil

and streams began to flow;

in time, it reached the fissures

in the silent world below

and there, by chance, it found a seed;

the seed began to grow.


The mandrake seed, for such it was,

yearned upward through the earth;

it struggled through the mud and rock,

unmindful of its worth

or that the stricken planet was

reliant on its birth.


Too late it reached the surface.

Too late it touched the day.

A savage wind had risen

in an angry sky of grey.                  

There was a shriek that no-one heard,

The plant was swept away.



And that is how the story ends

when every eye is blind;

no crevice in the body and

no corner of the mind:

at last, no more of secrets

of a dark and impious kind.

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