There stands a church upon a hill

Where Hallowed ground has fallen ill

The Chapel House sits silently in the evening chill

The forested hillock petrified, forever statue-still

Naked time-blacked timber stands

Where Time’s indifferent has shorn;

Empty windows like sightless eyes overseeing blasted lowlands

This deathless steeple sinks into the soil whence it was borne

Like a great beast’s ribs, fractured and frayed

The pews all splintered, wood decayed,

The altar’s silver trim is grayed

This holy house a warden against an accursed

And restless grave

Behind this church’s corpse, a tree

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Stands bare, and stands there solitary

And yet beyond, there lies a clearing

Through the woods, and a maiden can be heard keening

Through the clearing runs a pass

A wrought iron gate there does decry

The potter’s field where sleepless, eternal,

Eyeless terrors lie

A visceral sky beset with red wine clouds

That bruise into a purplish pink

Apollo retires, descending sable the world surrounds

The waning sun below horizon sinks

Here we meet, see them at a glance,

Two young lovers waltz abreast, and how they dance!

Venturing on an evening stroll, but far from home,

Seeking, well of course what young lovers see,

To be alone

Giggling through the chapel these young lovers pass

This strapping lad and charming lass

Before the gothic gate they stand

They venture in, clasping hand in hand

Past the stillness, through the gate,

Farther into the twilit field

The gate behind them closes in

Latch and key, locked and sealed

The lass recites, and the lad he does confess

And how they sing, embrace, kiss, and caress

A midden sea of headstones is their only pall

Sprawled upon a gentle grassy cairn

A baleful and full moonrise

Hypnotized by each other’s eyes

And cradled in each other’s arms

Their muffled moans, they sigh and sing,

So that they cannot see the things

Gangrenous wastrel arms upreach from quiet earth

And seize, defile and wrench the lovers into their deathless curse

Warlock souls for centuries deceased,

Hear their cries, they cry!

Cry out for living hearts on which to feast!

Clawed and hounded, these hardly more than children

Torn and ripped and rent asunder

Their blood drank up by fleshless jaws

And spirits kept as horrific plunder

The moon is wane, and slow descends

But for the lovers, the night shall never end

Their cries, now ghastly howls

You can hear them calling still

Upon this plot upon a hill, where Hallowed ground has fallen ill