Stories
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In chill dark hour when Reapers stutter,in Death’s wake, Gray Shadows mutter-whisper, tell, of life eternal,of flesh unholy, of grave made fertileThe Promised Heir, the Putrid Son,whom haunt and fiend still wait upon,Fooled god, fooled devil, and mortal kindhe gave a Mask they wear to blindthemselves as they in darkness danceto songs that tell his
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Scratch, scratchnot like an itch but like a stimulant, like a massageof the little things further in, the nerves that do their jobs and do them wellbut rarely work –so far away, as they are, so far;Scratch to tell them that I miss them It feels best to close my eyes sincemy eyes get to
J. Newman Pritchard 