If I were a poem, my words would be my form;
I'd lilt and twirl, I'd sift and swirl
I'd be above the norm.

If I were a poem, my syllables would ring;
I'd thunder and shout, I'd laugh and cry out
I'd be like a poem you sing.

If I were a poem, my sounds would be odd;
I'd change and hold, I'd peak and fold
Pronunciation would be broad.

If I were a poem, my meaning would be long;
I'd love and cry, I'd hate and die
I'd be a touching song.

The Witching Hour approaches on swift and silent feet,
Its chilling chorus fills the air with chimes that drain all heat.
The ash-polluted blackened ice spreads through the wooded graves
And skeletons rise from below, none spared their empty gaze.
Cold January beckons me like scent of dry decay
And I grin widely, savoring the winter's bleak dismay.
A widespread fearful aura full of wrongness fills the night,
And hides me as I flicker, making nightmares with delight.

An ancient tree stands gnarled and withered,
Below it is its age-old roots;
A story great it has delivered
Of newfound power, stomping boots.
If it could speak, this tree would tell
A tale of old, the aeon's race;
In depths of earth, as deep as hell
Sits a long-forgotten grandiose place.
But close behind this tree that speaks
There lurks a psychometric's dream;
A second gnarled and hunchbacked tree
That still remembers human's scheme.
The tales of old are not yet lost,
For here we see this ancient tome
Who, whether it knows it or not,
Remembers what's beneath the loam.

I wake to loudly grinding gears,
Pounding pistons in my ears,
Silent whispers in my head;
God only knows how I'm not dead.
I rise and stand on tired feet,
My body burned by steaming heat;
I smell the smoke and blazing fire,
The danger's near and just as dire.
I turn to run as workers yell,
It's close behind me, I can tell.
I see them at a geared machine;
It sparks, I taste its metal keen.
I look around the place I'm in,
The noise and light begins to spin;
And as I rise above the din,
I see, I feel, the World Within.