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Nocturnes: Our Alma Mater As You Sleep
I think I watched a pallid spider fall
out of the socket where her left eyeball
had once turned. Upon joints long sprung, her jaw
hangs open to display dull teeth, much rotted
by all the booze with which she was besotted.
Twisted cobwebs, where her hair used to be,
are full of insects' carcasses, sucked dry.
The black shround she must wear eternally
marks a dead thing whose evil cannot die.
At her appearing, stars fell from the North
as her own grave had vomited her forth.
The summer sun turned, that day, toward the South,
while she shambled right to Hell's widened mouth.
Her clacking limbbones reach into your dreams.
Her empty ear holes still desire your screams.
