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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2023675-Devils-Pond
Rated: E · Poetry · Contest · #2023675
Some of the scariest places are the haunted landscapes of rural New England towns.
Flakes of cake fall from the sky

and hasten the pace of all who pass by.

Weaving and bobbing they slowly return,

with little complaint, restraint or concern.



A chill on the path is as sharp and as clear

as smoke from the pines intertwines with the air.

But chance swept them to when fro was desired

and ahead evil springs growl and conspire.



Tonight windy demons take icy delight

in directing the sleigh through failing moonlight-

over the crust of the old sawmill’s power

who’s mouth waits all winter for a chance to devour.



Swiftly skating along she belches and cracks

and succumbs to the weight of forged iron tracks.

Both soldier, both steed and all others aboard

paid what no neighbor can ever afford.





Sweet Spring thaws the troubling spring

and time the tonic that fades remembering.

Only legends and rumors are still passed around

by elders and drunkards in the old farming town.



One man was willing to swim past the fear,

though most he ignored told him to beware.

More like a fish he paid them no mind

then took his last swig of northern sunshine.



Deeper and deeper, through layers and layers

lead to no praise from those who gave prayers.

No grave was plotted and few did attend,

despite knowing the devil had tricked them again.



So if you desire, both knowledge and glory

and believe some misfortunes make for good stories,

think on the warning I give to you now;

If you come to pass, go around…

go around.



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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2023675-Devils-Pond