Whateley's Farm Poem by Michael Brosky

All of the black sheep have herded their horns
All of the sad angels have spoken with tongues of thorns
Creep up that lonely chimney, been awhile
Open every tome across the table and tile
Wands and hooves, deaf alacrity astounds
Around and around, the affliction circles these grounds
Shadow ever reaches with a long arm
Black, hole smile and an absence of light all about Whateley's farm
Those thirsting and bitter lands chuckle faint
Those hollow, lonely peaks have felt her naked restraint
Not anymore, some ritual release
As the hot breath goes through her parted lips to the breeze
A bubble of a black mass stirs, responds
Cut the red ribbon from the pale flesh and loose the bonds
Such a high sigh could not do any harm
But there is nothing natural pervading on Whateley's farm
So soft the tarantula walks across
So quick to the stinger the scorpion's poison draws
We all share the glimmer of the death star
It strangely writes our fates in time's endless memoir
Poison and passion, flesh, shell, bite and kiss
It serves ever more clear staring into the abyss
The tension snaps when we succumbed to charm
Now all of the lights go out and darkness sets on Whateley's farm