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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2202608-The-well
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Horror/Scary · #2202608
What's in the well? Read on. A story poem for Halloween.
The Well

An old man's sin awaiting, in the bottom of the well,
Shhh all lips should be silent, tis a secret, none should tell.
Someone went a missing, but the searchers never found,
cause everyone was looking for a grave beneath the ground.

Then Mother Nature answered, with a two day pounding rain,
that filled the well with water, like a nasty plugged up drain,
and as the water rose, spilling o're that swollen land,
announced "it's time for telling", and revealed a severed hand.

The hand was thin and fragile, encased within the mud,
the water on the earth smelled sour like putrid, rancid blood.
The Constable arrived to see if everything was right,
but while walking to the door, he observed the horrid sight.

The farmer heard that car pull up, and hurried out the door,
The Constable approached him and pointed at the gore.
"Someone's hand is in your courtyard, what do have you to say?"
"The floodwaters exposed it with the torrent of this day."

And as the two conversed the rains then started up anew,
and forced a kind of burp, followed by a gush that blew,
the body of a woman was forced, from deep below,
and washed over the well side, within the water's flow.

The two men watched aghast, their mouths dropped open wide,
as other parts were lifted onto the surface tide.
The last thing to arise was the victims severed head,
who stared upon her killer, the farmer that she'd wed.

The farmer feeling faint, passed out and fell onto the well,
the Constable slipped in the mud and thrashed within the swell.
Unable to survive, the farmer drowned in that old pit,
his wife, with sweet revenge had sent him straight into the spit.

The Constable in wonderment, reviewed the morbid case,
and stood there in the rain with a grimace on his face.
The motive never known, nor the killer ever certain,
this story's at its end, so it's time to drop the curtain.






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