Mother of the Mire
In the murky mire before the broiling dawn,
Away from the herd wanders the lonely fawn.
Deep in the thicket where the light is scorned,
She loses the path amongst the vines of thorn.
Her matted fur soaked in seeping blood
Trudging forth through infernal mud.
Beyond the bramble; twisted as sin
An ominous portal, a watcher within
A cloudy cave of confinement, long hidden away
Ancient as the starry sky, born from the burning clay.
Mother of the Mire, Demon of the bog
Shackled in the muck of a never-ending slog.
Forgive the poor souls who fell into her trap,
Swallowed beneath the slime and the sap.
A sunken eye bearing rotten fruit,
Under swaying hair of tangled roots.
Tall as the dogwood; thin as the pines,
Skin of sludge shaped with vile design.
The path of knives she jaggedly treads,
Her mangled cape adorned in heads.
Of those who’ve entered these marshes of shame,
None have lived to remember her name.