There is a pit of deepest hell
That treads upon the sod
From which the richest treasures grow
So promises the god.
From suffering comes the purest voice,
Throat that bore the unspared rod
And in the darkness measured full
None dare cry the Ichabod.
Nightmare spawn with fangs and claw
Hold no fears for those who know
The terror held in empty crib
Where angels never go.
Say not the child is borne away
Where never evil shows
Say not the heaven stench departs.
This monstrous grace, bestowed,
Rips limb from soul and heart from mind
And leaves its mark of woe behind.

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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