What say you, friend, of the Gilded Grave? That wretched place on Gooseberry Hill, where the cats claw and wail, and trees bend at will. Will you join me, friend, as we venture so dankly, and discover the horrors who left them quite frankly- I wouldn't know, save the old ground-keeper, who still sleeps with his head on an old rusted sleeper- he'll moan and beguile, as the moon does its waxing, and lest not forget, when he's maddened and thrashing- he stirs up the earth of the grave- freshly bound, and sweeps with his thrashing old hoe in the ground; when the grave he does hit is the one that it lives in, all around him will swim with the dead and the living; do prey that your safe, as a babe in their bed, or dear friend you'd find that old hoe in your head- no less would he ponder for your brain be now his, as he'd swing and he'd swung as a prize on his stick- the grave we once watched is now stinking and bloody, and with glee he would trot to his home in the study- and your brains would be bait, dear friend, to deny- would be graver than grave, and I will not lie, that the grave that was Gilded, and once that we watched, is now all but your own- with your name it be notched; as the ground-keeper plays with your own bloody head, I'll cry in my sleeve, as my eyes fill with dread. Oh dear friend, oh why, did I bring you to here, my fault it must be for this poor act so queer; the grave that was Gilded is now naught to you, but the tomb of my dearest- in the ground you now stew.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011