Another of my favorite poem works!

Williamson Grounds

The wind drips with chill malice,
blowing cold and hard and
bitter as the day grows dim.

Follow me into the orchard, I say, where
autumn leaves spiral,
falling from tarnished citadels
that twist towards the sky in rage.

The screams of the trees are a dirge
for we who must die;
we who sink into the mire
of doubt and hate.

The trees know what blooms
around the bend;
perversions oozing sorrow,
weeping tears of ichor,
and mourning our untimely ends.

The marsh should teem with life, I say,
but it does not here.
Sick with corruption,
this swamp is an aberration, wicked,
abhorring man.

It reaches out with slimy tendrils,
struggling to pull us under.

We run, but there can be no escape
from this Byzantine hell,
this shadowy nightmare that was,
once, maybe, a place
of wonder and happiness.

There was a swing there,
I cry, pointing.
All that remains is rust,
corroding and tainting,
And there, a child’s slide,
covered in sickly green vines,
entangling and choking.

This dead park, this haunt,
the living do not belong here.
The ghosts of this place resemble not
gentle shades full of mourning.
These spirits are angry,
souls caught in the web of death,
unable to escape to what lies beyond
and long since driven insane from imprisonment.

We run, but a statue confronts us in our escape.
Hideous marble, cracked and green with mold.
Its arm stretches towards us, longing:
it was a woman, once, reaching to hug her
child, who has long since decayed.

Now only the statue of the mother remains,
forever hoping for a reunion,
something that can never come to pass.
Like you, she seems to say,
trying to escape this warped wood.

The last rays of sun bleed across the landscape,
casting sick reflections and revealing
the horror we choose to ignore
when all is bright and happy.
We clutch each other in primal fear,
bracing for the final terror.

The moonless night begins; the sun setting forever
on our hopes and dreams.