by Ann Neilson
Lonely forest, dim, deep, and dank,
With tarnished branches chaotically swaying,
Dance in your own denial, parading-
Let musky vapors ensue with haste.
Imbibing corpses jest and cheer,
The harvest moon beams with approbation
Lighting the shadowy hill in elation;
The time of death grows ever near.
Hands writhe and seize and penetrate
The ashen ground, and folly
Evaporates into misty melancholy
Stealing upon windowpane slates.
Beckon to the reaper’s call,
Slip into spirit and out of skin,
Should it fit, come, you’re invited in-
We’ll lay your gauzy funeral pall.