The Cursed
Compendium

In silent streets where gaslights gleam,
A shop stood small, like half a dream.
Its windows fogged with dust and thread,
Where dolls with glassy stares were spread.

The toymaker worked late by flame,
Though few in town recalled his name.
His hands moved fast, precise, and sly—
A marionette with stitched-up sky.

Each toy he carved with loving grace,
Yet none could hold a human face.
He’d file it down, as if in fear
That one might cry, or speak, or leer.

Children pressed noses to the glass,
Where rocking horses watched them pass.
And music boxes hummed a tune
That smelled of sawdust, wax, and ruin.

They said he spoke to broken things—
To dolls with cracks and twisted springs.
They said at night, he’d softly croon
To rattles dead before their tune.

A mother once brought back a bear
Whose eyes would follow her up stairs.
She swore its seams were wet with red—
The shop took it. The bear was fed.

He never aged, or so it seemed.
His coat was moth-bit, rarely cleaned.
But still he stood through plague and rain,
A shadow in a windowpane.

The bishop frowned. The banker prayed.
Yet none could prove the toys he made
Were anything but odd and old—
Though something in their limbs felt cold.

He watched the town with ticking breath,
A quiet pact with life and death.
And in his chest, beneath the dust,
His heart ran dry with gears and rust.

The bell above his door still sang,
Though none recalled it ever rang.
And from within, a whisper crept:
“The toys are waking while you slept.”

Young Elsie dared the iron gate,
Her courage stoked by whispered fate.
She’d seen a doll blink twice at dawn—
Its glass eyes wept when she was gone.

The bell above the doorway groaned,
As dust and silence claimed their throne.
She crept where gears and springs were stored,
Past rocking horses stiff and gored.

The shelves were packed with silent kin—
A hundred dolls with stitched-up skin.
Their heads turned slowly as she passed,
As if they knew she’d be the last.

A lullaby played soft and slow,
From nowhere she could see or know.
Its tune was warped, its pitch off-key—
A song of sleep, not meant for peace.

One teddy bear was split and sewn
With parts that didn’t match its own.
Its chest was glass—a heart inside
Still beat, though long since it had died.

She found a drawer marked “Lamb and Lye,”
Inside: a puppet’s severed eye.
A jaw of wax, a tiny hand,
A child’s shoe filled with clotted sand.

The walls began to breathe and hum,
As music boxes thumped and strummed.
The door behind had locked itself—
She wasn’t on a shelf. She was the shelf.

Outside, the parents formed a line,
To ask why Elsie missed her time.
But Victor only gave a nod,
And clicked his teeth like ticking cogs.

“Some children break,” he told them low,
“And some forget which way to grow.
But fear not—she is safe and still,
Inside a doll with dainty quill.”

At night, they swore they heard her cry,
Between the squeaks of lullaby.
And in her home, her bed lay bare—
But by the sill… a strand of hair.

A storm rolled in without a name,
Its thunder forged in guilt and flame.
The mothers wept, the fathers swore—
Enough was gone. They'd wait no more.

The preacher clutched a rusted blade,
The smith his tongs, the guards their spades.
They came with oil and bitter song—
A mob of right to face the wrong.

His shop was shut, the curtains drawn.
The bell above had not chimed on.
But through the glass, they swore they saw
A thousand toys begin to claw.

The door gave way with screaming wood,
Revealing dust and splintered good.
And there he stood, serene, alone—
The toymaker upon his throne.

He did not run. He did not plead.
His eyes were stars that would not bleed.
He raised one hand, a ticking sound—
Then toys began to crawl around.

A soldier doll with rusted pin
Lodged deep into a farmer's shin.
A jack-in-box with jaws of brass
Snapped shut upon the baker’s calf.

But fire does what fear cannot—
It scorched the room, devoured the rot.
The shelves collapsed. The workshop screamed.
His porcelain face cracked at the seam.

They dragged him out with cloth and rope,
Still singing some forgotten hope.
His voice was high, half-choked with song:
“You've killed me late. You praised me long.”

They burned him there, outside his gate.
The air grew thick with char and hate.
His limbs went stiff, his laugh rang thin—
Then all the toys began to grin.

A gust of ash swept through the street.
The cobblestones were warm with heat.
But no one saw the puppet string
Still trailing from the smouldering wing.

The ashes cooled, the fire slept,
But something stirred where silence crept.
The toys once blackened, burned and torn,
Began to twitch—rebuilt, reborn.

A jack-in-box with melted grin
Sprang up and dragged its wires in.
A soldier doll, still split by flame,
Reloaded with a new-found aim.

From smoke and soot, a whisper grew—
A lullaby the shadows knew.
And in its hum, a voice returned:
The toymaker was not yet burned.

His mask lay cracked among the coals,
But stitched itself with stolen souls.
Its grin reformed, its eyes aglow—
He smiled through death, too proud to go.

One thread of soul, one nail of spite,
One ticking clock that beat through night—
He rose again in form not flesh,
A body bound in string and mesh.

The playroom opened underground,
Where ticking echoed, round and round.
Its walls were teeth, its doors were bent,
Its ceiling low, its logic spent.

The toys he made, now truly free,
Danced dances born of agony.
A ballerina spun and cried,
Each pirouette a mother’s lie.

A mobile spun above a crib
With tiny limbs that used to fib.
A music box began to moan—
Its gears were bones. Its tune: a groan.

He walked among his phantom kin,
No longer man, no longer sin.
Just Victor now, of strings and spite,
The Toymaker, returned to night.

And in his chest, a ticking heart
Marked every soul he’d tear apart.
A thousand games were yet to play—
The children sleep. The adults pay.

The night was thick with nursery rhymes,
And clocks that chimed at broken times.
A man awoke inside a box,
Surrounded by toy soldier mocks.

He screamed, but nothing left his throat—
His voice was now a music note.
His limbs were stiff, his skin felt waxed,
His thoughts were strings pulled taut and taxed.

Around him stretched a nightmare place,
Where teddy bears wore human face.
And building blocks with teeth and eyes
Would spell out sins, then reorganize.

The walls were quilted, padded tight,
But pulsed with veins in flickering light.
Each doorknob giggled when you turned—
Each step you took, a lesson learned.

A ballerina, torn at waist,
Danced sideways in a child's disgrace.
She bled confetti, wept perfume—
And whispered secrets through the gloom.

Above, a mobile spun with glee—
Its toys were infants, hanging free.
Their mouths were sewn, their eyelids gone,
They swayed to Victor’s ticking song.

The man, a warden from the ward,
Had once made orphans scrub the floor.
He laughed at pain, ignored their cries—
Now strings pulled back his lids and thighs.

Victor emerged, a thing unwhole,
A marionette with shards of soul.
His laugh was wet, like oil and pitch:
"Let’s play a game. I’ll let you twitch."

The toys advanced with broken pace,
Some with no hands, some with no face.
They grabbed the man with childlike glee—
Then played until he ceased to be.

And when he died, his eyes stayed wide—
They stitched him into something tried.
Now every night, he claps and hums—
A wind-up judge who bites his thumbs.

He saw her first beneath a light,
A teacher walking home at night.
She passed the alley, swift and clean—
And never saw the glinting string.

It coiled around her wrist and spun,
Then yanked before she knew to run.
She gasped, but not a sound came out—
Her limbs obeyed a different route.

She danced into the broken lot,
Where toys lay still and wires rot.
Her feet began to skip and sway—
Not hers to move, not hers to stay.

Victor emerged in powdered grace,
With twitching fingers, mask in place.
His hands held no baton or wand—
Just phantom strings that pulled beyond.

"Let’s act a scene,” he said, “you’ll see—
A tale of cruelty and glee.
You made them kneel, those little souls.
Tonight, you’re cast in all their roles.”

She jerked to life, a marionette,
In ribbons soaked with child's regret.
She bowed and curtsied, kicked and spun,
Each motion sharp, precise, undone.

Around her rose the ghostly crowd—
Past victims clapped but made no sound.
Their hollow eyes lit dim and red,
Each one a soul once sewn and bled.

She mouthed, I’m sorry, eyes askew,
But Victor laughed, “It’s just a cue.”
He twitched her hand, and she began
To strike herself with childlike hands.

A lullaby began to swell,
The toys around began to yell.
"Encore!" they shrieked, "Encore once more!"
She bowed again—then dropped to floor.

Now she resides inside a chest,
A puppet wrapped in mourning dress.
Her strings still twitch at Victor’s call—
She’ll dance again, and she will fall.

The manor stood on crooked land,
A gilded cage built by a hand
That bought up toys from every age—
And locked them in a glass-display.

The collector smiled, refined, alone,
With teeth like keys and heart like stone.
To him, each toy was wealth to store—
Not playthings, but a private war.

He found a jack-in-box one night,
Outside his gate, beneath the light.
Its paint was chipped, its handle bent—
But still, he saw it as content.

He turned the crank with practiced grace,
Then frowned—it didn’t show its face.
Instead, a puff of sulfur hissed,
And strings crept up his arms and wrists.

His mansion groaned. The curtains shook.
The shelves all snapped, he dared not look.
The toys he’d hoarded far and wide
Now twitched with things he could not hide.

A hobby horse began to rear,
Its sockets filled with molten tears.
A music box began to laugh—
Its notes reversed, its tone gone flat.

Victor appeared from shadow’s seam,
His face the crack between two dreams.
"Each toy you stole, you stole their voice.
Now hear them scream. You made that choice."

The dolls began to crowd the floor,
Each holding pieces from before.
A rattle made from baby teeth.
A train whose wheels cried underneath.

The collector tried to shout and flee,
But marionette limbs bent the knee.
They wound his flesh, they cracked his spine—
They wound the man like he’d done time.

Now in his home, upon a shelf,
He sits beside his former self.
A glass-eyed doll with silent scream—
Preserved inside a profit’s dream.

The children whispered in the yards,
Of ticking men with porcelain shards.
They said at night, he watched the town,
And marked the ones who let them down.

In playground chalk and hopscotch line,
They drew his face with crooked spine.
A grin too wide, one eye aglow—
A clockwork clown from long ago.

The teachers laughed, the parents scorned.
They blamed the tales on books and storms.
But still, each night, the swings would creak,
And toys would vanish, week by week.

A father scoffed, his son in tears,
“Just dreams and dust and childish fears.”
But in the dark, his bedside shook—
His watch had stopped. His mirror looked.

The hallway lengthened as he ran.
The stairs reversed, his legs like sand.
And at the end, a music box
Played lullabies with voices lost.

Victor emerged from peeling walls,
A coat of teeth, a crown of dolls.
He raised no hand, he spoke no word—
Just let the ticking sound be heard.

“You broke your vow,” the silence said,
“You swore to shield, not twist instead.
Your son still cries beneath your roof.
Tonight, you’ll dance to learn the truth.”

Strings burst from every clock and crack,
They seized his limbs, then bent them back.
He spun like shame on carousel,
Each circle stripped his soul to shell.

At dawn, the bed was neatly made.
The house untouched, the hallway plain.
But by the child’s toy chest of pine—
A ticking heart, still beating time.

Now doors are locked, and lights stay on.
But still, he comes when trust is gone.
A thousand eyes, one chime, one law—
The Toymaker sees what children saw.

The boy lived in a house of screams,
Where lullabies were traded dreams.
His toys were cracked, his books were torn,
His nights were long, his laughter worn.

He spoke to shadows on the wall,
And made his friends from paper dolls.
He’d hum to cope, he’d hum to hide—
Each note a whisper to survive.

One night, beneath the crooked stair,
He found a box carved with despair.
Its paint was faded, name erased,
Its crank as cold as father’s face.

He turned it once, and silence fell.
A shimmer rang, like distant bell.
And from the dark, on strings of dust—
A figure formed, and clocks went hushed.

Victor emerged with cautious tilt,
His coat of cloth and stitched-in guilt.
The boy looked up, too numb for fear.
The Toymaker just stood… and near.

He did not grin. He did not jeer.
He saw himself, a younger year.
A child with eyes too old, too deep,
A child who never learned to sleep.

“You’ve built your world from broken things,”
He said, then pulled upon his strings.
Around them danced the battered toys—
Not monsters now, but silent boys.

They bowed to him, they sang a song,
Of finding somewhere they belong.
And one by one, they took a knee—
Then offered hands to set him free.

Victor turned to go, then paused.
The boy had never asked or caused.
He left a gift: a music heart,
That beat with light in every part.

And now the boy still walks alone,
But never truly on his own.
His toys still hum, and sometimes say:
The Toymaker once spared a stray.

They came with salt, and flame, and steel,
A priest, a mage, a man of zeal.
They’d mapped the realm where clocks ran thin,
And vowed to draw the devil in.

They found the door behind a bed,
Where dreams had soured, love had fled.
It pulsed with thread and ticking moans—
A wound in walls, a crack in home.

They entered armed with sacred light,
Prepared to end the Toymaker’s blight.
They carved a path through twisted halls,
Where rocking chairs would crawl the walls.

A marionette led them inside—
A boy they knew who should have died.
He pointed with his stitched-up hand,
Then giggled low, unable to stand.

Victor awaited by a stage,
A phantom carved from soot and rage.
His eyes were flames, his grin was glass—
“Welcome, guests. Come take your mask.”

He raised his arms and strings flew fast.
The mage was caught and bent like brass.
The priest wept blood, his cross now burned.
The man of zeal at last… unlearned.

The room became a winding gear,
Each second oiled with curse and fear.
The air grew tight, the lights blew out—
And time reversed with ticking shout.

But one still stood—a girl in red,
Who’d lost her twin to toys in bed.
She held no blade, she spoke no spell—
Just whispered, “I remember well.”

Victor froze. His strings went slack.
A memory clawed his curled-up back.
He saw himself, once kind, once still—
Before the fire, before the will.

His laugh broke down. His jaw unhinged.
The toys all stopped mid-scream and cringe.
He bowed. “The end,” he sighed, “is mine.”
Then vanished in a burst of chimes.

Now in the wind, some swear they hear
A box unwind when nights grow near.
And if a child starts to pray—
The Toymaker might… just stay away.

The tents were high, the moon was bold,
The popcorn sweet, the brass ring gold.
The crowd all clapped for fire and flight—
But she brought joy that burned too bright.

Giggles danced in purple flare,
With sugar breath and cotton hair.
She tossed out smiles and spun her wheel—
But one laugh wasn’t part the deal.

She heard it first when lions roared—
A cackle sharp that wasn’t scored.
It echoed back from deep inside—
A laugh that grinned and never died.

She smeared her cheeks with extra red,
She smiled so wide her gums had bled.
The ringmaster gave her a nod—
But flinched when her last bow felt odd.

The fire breather missed his mark.
The acrobats fell through the dark.
The clown car wept a stream of bones—
While Giggles juggled shattered phones.

The calliope began to groan,
The music box sang notes unknown.
She pirouetted through the screams—
And popped balloons that leaked out dreams.

The laughter grew, it filled her chest,
It cracked her ribs beneath her vest.
She laughed too—she had to now—
Her joy was fire, her face a vow.

Then up it went—the canvas flamed.
The crowd all fled, their faces maimed.
The big top swirled in choking smoke—
But still she laughed. And still she spoke.

“Encore, encore,” she whispered slow,
As sawdust sparked and eyes let go.
She bowed to none, yet still she bowed—
A broken queen, without a crowd.

And when they searched the ashes red,
No corpses found. Just toys, and lead.
And one lone clown, her lips still wide—
With burnt balloons, and joy inside.

The streamers sagged, the cake sat still,
The bounce house swayed against its will.
A child turned six beneath grey skies—
With silent guests and shuttered eyes.

His sister's toys were boxed and gone,
The house too quiet, smiles withdrawn.
The parents prayed he’d laugh once more—
So when she came, they held the door.

She wheeled in joy on rubber feet,
With party horns and candy meat.
Her cheeks were red, her curls askew—
She waved. “I brought balloons for you!”

No one recalled just who had called,
But no one dared to speak at all.
She danced, she flipped, she sang off-key—
The boy just stared, then smiled... slightly.

She pulled a dove from out her chest,
Then fed it string and let it rest.
Her wand was bent, her hat was torn—
But every trick was grief reborn.

She juggled knives, then made a twist—
A balloon dog with teeth that hissed.
The candles hissed. The frosting bled.
The birthday song came soft and dead.

The parents clapped with trembling hands,
Their throats too tight to meet demands.
The boy just watched with tilted head—
While party hats leaked something red.

The clown bowed low. Her giggles cracked.
She whispered, “Where’s your sister at?”
He didn’t cry. He only shrugged.
She kissed his cheek and handed blood.

The guests all left, but left too slow—
Their cars grew moss, their feet said no.
And no one saw the mirrors shake—
Or how the shadows stayed awake.

Now every year, they set a plate.
The boy’s still six, the date’s still late.
And from the trees, balloons descend—
To mark a birthday that won’t end.

The stage lights buzzed like angry bees,
The chairs half-filled, the air diseased.
The comic stood with worn routines,
His smile held up by nicotine.

He mocked the weak, he punched down low,
He wrung out pain for every show.
The crowd was drunk, the laugh signs blinked—
But not a soul actually winked.

Then came a chuckle, crisp and slow,
From backstage, where no one should go.
A giggle thick with syruped glee—
That made the mic spark quietly.

He cleared his throat. He made a crack—
A joke about the war came back.
The crowd all froze. One woman wept.
And yet… that laugh crept on, and crept.

He saw her then—at curtain’s edge.
A clown too still to be a sketch.
Her smile too wide, her dress too tight—
She clapped alone in blinking light.

The cue lights died. The cameras rolled.
The comic’s grin grew stiff and old.
He tried to pause. His throat caught flame.
The laugh inside him knew his name.

His ribs began to twitch and bend.
He cracked a joke—he’d reached the end.
His lungs burst forth in howling cheer—
His own applause, drawn ear to ear.

The audience began to scream.
But still they laughed, in broken streams.
The sound grew loud. The roof shook loose—
The laugh track played like tightened noose.

And when the tape played back that night,
They heard no crowd, they saw no light.
Just Giggles, center frame and proud—
Performing for a dead-eyed crowd.

The network pulled the final reel.
But sometimes, if your stream don’t feel
Quite right… you’ll hear a cackled hiss—
And laugh until your teeth all twist.

The chapel rang with vows and brass,
With rosebuds crushed beneath the glass.
A bride in white, a groom in fear—
For something wrong had wandered near.

She wasn’t on the guest list, no.
She wasn’t known to friend or foe.
But there she stood, all laced in grime—
A clown who smelled like pantomime.

She twirled a wand that squealed and bled,
Then tossed pink rice that bounced like lead.
Her shoes left streaks along the floor—
But no one dared to ask for more.

The flower girl began to shake.
The best man’s nose began to break.
And when the ring was passed to hand—
It bit the priest and ate the band.

Giggles clapped with bloody grace,
Then smeared rouge on the bride’s white face.
“You’ll wear a smile, come what may—
It’s not ‘I do,’ it’s how you stay.”

The garter shot like viper’s tongue,
The bouquet burst with glass and lung.
The veil turned into funeral lace—
The groom screamed through a split-cheeked face.

The guests all stood, unsure to run—
As cake collapsed in frothing fun.
And out rolled gifts wrapped not in bows,
But in old teeth and severed toes.

The music box played far too slow,
Her confetti sliced like winter snow.
The bridesmaids danced in ribbon chains—
Each waltz a twitch, each twirl a strain.

The bride now laughed through broken jaw,
Her dress aflame, her smile raw.
Giggles bowed, then kissed her hand—
And vanished through the wedding band.

To this day, no chapel’s safe—
No aisle, no kiss, no slice of cake.
For if she’s near, you’ll feel the breach—
A burst of confetti… and teeth.

It started on a passing bus,
A flash of white, a face too thus.
A painted grin behind the glass—
Then gone before the stop could pass.

She told herself it wasn’t real,
Just city tricks and windshield steel.
But when she brushed her teeth that night—
The mirror laughed in candlelight.

The smile was faint at first, a crack—
A red line tracing down and back.
Then came the eye, the smeared blue wink—
And her own face began to think.

She scrubbed the glass, she closed her blinds,
But saw the clown in exit signs.
In soup can labels, puddles, steam—
In every dream, that endless gleam.

She quit her job. She burned her clothes.
She plucked her lashes, pierced her nose.
But still that face came back in red—
And whispered jokes beneath her bed.

She tried to scream but only wheezed.
Her laughter came in choking wheeze.
And when she laughed, she could not stop—
Her gums split wide, her jaw would pop.

Neighbours said she smiled too much.
The mailman found her laughter touched.
The landlord knocked, then ran away—
He’d seen a party through decay.

By month’s end, walls were circus white,
The ceiling spattered with delight.
She’d drawn balloons in crayon gore—
And whispered, “Giggles lives next door.”

When they broke in, they found a stage,
A room defaced in manic rage.
And on the glass—her final plea:
“The painted smile... it painted me.”

Now any mirror left alone
Might show a clown behind your own.
And if she grins, don’t look too long—
She’ll stay inside. She’ll write your song.

The office party buzzed with wine,
Fake tinsel strung on deadline time.
The lights blinked red, the music strained—
The interns laughed like they’d been trained.

The manager wore antlers proud,
And passed out “MVP” too loud.
The CEO was nowhere near—
But still, they toasted “One more year!”

And then she came, on silent toes,
With party hat and broken nose.
No one had seen her come or go—
But still they swore she’d stole the show.

Her name tag read: GIGGLES G.
Her eyes were wet with joy (or bleed).
She juggled files and spun a trick—
And stapled Dave’s tie to his lip.

She passed balloons that squirmed with cheer,
And offered shots that whispered fear.
She laughed, and someone laughed too hard—
Then choked upon a business card.

She led a dance on copier beds,
With streamers made from shredded heads.
The HR lead began to crawl—
But tripped on grins taped to the wall.

The lights went out. The doors were sealed.
She bowed upon the conference field.
Her “PowerPoint” played blood and bones—
And listed all their guilty tones.

The interns screamed. The printer jammed.
A piñata burst with teeth and spam.
She sang a jingle off the cuff—
“Your benefit plans weren’t enough.”

By morning, only crumbs remained—
A single balloon, softly stained.
And on the whiteboard, scrawled in jest:
“Great party, team! Love—Uninvited Guest.”

Now every office leaves a chair,
With cake untouched and extra flair.
For if you don’t... she just might stay.
She always hated walking away.

The kids all filed in, row by row,
While banners flapped in teacher's glow.
A guest was coming, one they missed—
A last-minute “motivational twist.”

She didn’t knock, she didn’t call.
She rolled right in with rubber brawl.
A clown so bright she burned the eyes—
With knotted shoes and shrieking “Surprise!”

The principal looked quite confused,
But staff were silent. None refused.
She handed out balloons, bright red—
That throbbed like veins and softly bled.

“Don’t pop ‘em yet,” she sweetly sang,
And walked the aisle with dragging fang.
The children laughed, their hands all raised—
Their grins too wide, their minds half-glazed.

Then POP!—one burst with rancid hiss.
The boy inside began to twist.
He spoke in rhymes he’d never known—
And giggled blood into the stone.

The teacher cried. Another popped—
And time itself just slowed and stopped.
Each burst released a dreamless scream,
A childhood carved from circus steam.

They saw her face in every wall,
They felt her crawl through every hall.
The gym lights spun. The world unzipped—
And reason died in tinsel drips.

One girl sat still, her tongue all split,
Her hands drew clowns in bloody grit.
Another boy just laughed and laughed—
His teeth all gone, his eyes mismatched.

The fire alarm was candy song.
The exit signs all blinked in wrong.
And when the bell rang, no one moved—
Except to dance in jagged groove.

They found no bodies, just balloon skin—
And writing carved on every chin:
“Learning is fun, with joy insane—
So let’s all pop… just one more vein.”

The fairground died ten years ago,
Its wheels now rust, its lights don’t glow.
But still he came, the father pale—
A flyer clenched, a paper trail.

His daughter vanished weeks before,
A birthday lost behind a door.
They said she ran. He knew they lied—
He heard a giggle when she cried.

He found the tent with striped decay,
Its flaps still wet with storm and clay.
The words above were scraped and gone—
Except “House Of” and a painted yawn.

Inside: no floor, no clear divide.
Just glass that shifted side to side.
Each pane revealed his face… then more—
A clown's grin stitched across the core.

He ran through halls that bent and breathed.
His name was sung in broken wreaths.
Each mirror held a younger self—
And each one laughed, despite itself.

“Remember this?” one voice did chime—
A mirror showed the missed school time.
Another showed him drunk with rage—
His daughter hiding from the stage.

He struck a pane—it bled and moaned.
He screamed her name. The glass just groaned.
Then there she was, in tutu blue—
A little smile… a mouth askew.

She said, “She came to make me laugh.”
She held a cake cut clean in half.
A balloon hissed behind her back—
Its string was made of velvet black.

He reached, but glass was flesh now, thick.
It pulsed and grinned and made him sick.
The mirrors cracked—then grinned as one:
“You made the joke. The clown just comes.”

They found him weeping in the field,
His arms around a fractured shield.
And in his mouth, a card unread:
“For one last laugh... we raise the dead.”

They banned the jokes. They burned the masks.
They tore down tents with sacred tasks.
The mayor swore, with voice like stone—
“No more laughs in Harlan’s Cone.”

The children learned to smile straight,
No teeth, no giggle, no debate.
The radios played only wind—
The clowns were gone. Their reign had thinned.

But then it came on Tuesday night—
A tiny laugh, too high, too bright.
It bubbled through a baby’s cry—
Then echoed from the apple pie.

They checked the phones, they checked the drain,
They checked beneath the windowpane.
But nothing there—no paint, no shoe—
Just teethmarks on the morning dew.

Next week, a woman baked her hand—
Still laughing as it hit the pan.
A boy bit tongues from all his dolls—
While humming through the bathroom walls.

The priest declared it devil’s sound,
And nailed shut every swing he found.
Yet still the laughter crept like mold—
It leaked through heat vents, soft and bold.

They found it in the courthouse floor,
In courtroom walls, in grocery store.
It chirped from tills and coffee cups—
A rising pitch that never stopped.

No clown was seen, no shape, no smile—
Just haunted air with circus guile.
And every laugh that slipped past lips
Carved dimples deep like razor slips.

Soon folks wore masks made out of skin,
To keep the laughing deep within.
But still it leaked, and still it came—
A jester’s curse with no fixed name.

And somewhere far, behind the sound,
A single red balloon spun round.
A note was tied, in ribbon face:
“I never left. Just lost my face.”

The lights came up on dust and bones,
A velvet stage of coughing tones.
The chairs were filled with waxy skin—
Each one a face she’d danced within.

The curtains peeled like candy flesh.
The footlights buzzed in colors fresh.
The music box began to wheeze—
And Giggles stepped through bloody breeze.

Her dress was stitched from RSVP,
With roses dyed in antifreeze.
Her shoes both screamed with every stomp—
The spotlight hummed a circus pomp.

She bowed to hands that would not clap,
To mouths sewn shut with ribbon wrap.
She juggled hearts. She spun her blade.
She drank from cups the dead had made.

Each trick recalled a ghost’s regret.
Each laugh recalled the day they met.
She pulled a name from balloon skin—
Then stuffed it back and breathed it in.

The mannequins began to twitch,
Their joints tied tight with party stitch.
One tried to clap, but arms were wrong—
So she performed a better song.

Her voice was sweet, a rattled bell.
She spoke of pain, and love, and hell.
“Why do you run when joy arrives?
A clown just wants you alive… alive…”

She held her final pose mid-spin—
One foot in air, one drawn-on grin.
The crowd just stared, their eyes all glass—
And yet she bowed, as clowns must pass.

Then silence fell like stage-black lead.
The curtain closed on all things said.
But if you press your ear to air—
You’ll hear applause from no one there.

And on your wall, the shadows twist—
With one more card you never missed:
“Thanks for the laughs. You were a scream.
I’ll see you soon… inside your dream.”

The sky split wide with shrieking flame,
The ocean howled its mother’s name.
A town stood still between the tides—
Then watched its blooded sun arise.

The birth came fast. The death came slow.
The midwife’s scream turned into glow.
The nurse collapsed in molten prayer—
Her lungs boiled dry in salted air.

Her mother broke with breathless eyes,
A firestorm where silence dies.
The sheets ignited mid-convulse,
Her heartbeat drowned in thunder’s pulse.

The father reached—too late, too blind.
The windows cracked with boiling brine.
The child cried once. The lights went black.
The sea took him. He never came back.

They wrapped her in a smoke-wet sheet,
Too scared to hold, too stunned to speak.
Her eyes both burned and pulled like tide—
A newborn grief, flame-wreathed with pride.

She did not wail. She did not squirm.
She watched the midwife twist and burn.
She blinked—and water filled the room.
She giggled—and became their doom.

The storm outside clapped church in two.
The steeple fell, the streets ran blue.
The fire raged. The rain poured ash.
And in the crib, she curled and laughed.

They blamed the blood. They blamed the sky.
They cursed her name, then asked it why.
The priest refused to speak her name—
And yet his robes caught sudden flame.

They say the wind now speaks her cry.
They say the wells go dry, then fry.
They say a child once killed the sun—
And wears its heat for having fun.

Syra Vale was born that night—
In flame, in flood, in endless fright.
And from that spark, the world was warned:
Some storms do not wait to be formed.

The halls were lined with pills and rules,
With silence dressed in clean white schools.
They called her “sick,” they called her “wild,”
And caged her like a storm-born child.

They gave her meds to cool her head.
They locked her wrists, they feared her tread.
They whispered names like “freak” and “blame,”
But none dared say her proper name.

She sat alone with steaming breath,
Her books all damp with hints of death.
Her desk would melt, her chair would hiss—
Her sighs could curl a crucifix.

A boy threw ink across her skin.
It scalded him. She did not grin.
A girl dumped water in her hair—
It hissed to steam and scorched the air.

The teacher told her, “Use your voice.
This anger—Syra, it’s a choice.”
She looked at him with eyes half-dead—
Then said, “So’s drowning.” Flame had spread.

The tiles cracked. The windows screamed.
The drinking fountain burst in steam.
The fire alarm howled like a beast—
But water drowned its bleating feast.

The stairwell boiled. The halls collapsed.
The classroom doors all melted fast.
She walked out calm. Her skin still glowed.
Behind her, grief and fury flowed.

She didn’t run. She didn’t weep.
She watched the school begin to sleep.
Its books now pulp, its desks now bone—
Its ashes chilled, its fire grown.

One camera caught her passing near—
A shadow veined with flame and fear.
Her footprint sizzled through the rain—
A burn that never healed again.

They tried to build that school anew.
It drowned again in morning dew.
And still, they say, when teens run wild—
They warn: Don’t touch the storm-born child.

He spoke in calm, deliberate notes,
In cardigans and anecdote.
“Let’s name the storm,” he kindly said—
She smiled. The water turned blood-red.

She sat upon his leather chair,
Still damp from rain that wasn’t there.
She said, “Let’s talk about your pain.”
His windows fogged with rising rain.

He said, “We’ll find the source, and fix.”
She asked, “What broke you first at six?”
He blinked. The fish tank gurgled thick.
The water darkened, slow and quick.

“I help,” he said. “I do no harm.”
She kissed her hand—it caught fire, warm.
The couch let out a muffled scream.
His pen began to drip with steam.

The goldfish thrashed. The water climbed.
He turned to speak. She stole his mind.
His bookshelf melted into glass.
Each title sobbed, each spine a gasp.

She asked, “How deep’s your guilt today?”
His lips went pale. He looked away.
The ceiling wept. The lights blew out.
The carpet writhed in choking doubt.

He tried to flee, but found no door.
His lungs filled up with truths ignored.
The therapy notes lit and burned—
And from his chest, a tide returned.

He drowned there screaming “I’m okay!”
As Syra turned and walked away.
The glass broke last. The fish swam free.
Their fins all flicked a silent plea.

They found him cold, the room intact.
No signs of fire. No single crack.
Just water pooled in patient shapes—
And steam that whispered, “No escape.”

The clinic closed. The file’s sealed.
His body never was revealed.
But Syra’s face now haunts that place—
Reflected in the water’s face.

He preached with teeth like rusted nails,
With fire that blistered holy tales.
His voice was heat, his gaze was coal—
But his hands baptized more than souls.

He lit the font with sacred wine.
He burned the poor and called it “sign.”
Each sermon hissed with brimstone spit—
Each child that cried, he deemed unfit.

Syra watched from shadowed pew,
Her eyes the color of untrue.
Her hair dripped steam, her fists were light—
A storm made flesh on Sunday night.

He saw her stand. His tone grew proud.
“We cleanse the wicked!” he declared loud.
She smiled. The candles bent in fear.
The air grew thick. The walls drew near.

She walked the aisle, fire in bloom.
His book caught flame. The church grew gloom.
The font began to hiss and churn—
And every hymn refused return.

He shouted, “God will strike thee down!”
She whispered, “Which one wears your crown?”
Then plunged him in his sacred pool—
That boiled alive the wicked fool.

His screams rose up through burning glass.
His skin came off in holy mass.
The cross above began to weep—
Its metal arms began to creep.

The choir sang, though none had mouths.
The organ shrieked in minor droughts.
The pews all cracked, the ceiling split—
And water rained from every writ.

When morning came, the ash still wept.
The town just prayed, and no one slept.
The church now stands in silence, wet—
And reeks of steam and sulphur sweat.

They say a woman made of flame
Walked in and shamed the preacher’s name.
They say the font still spits and sighs—
And begs to never baptize lies.

He poured her wine with blood-stained grace,
A silver fox with power's face.
He lit cigars on trembling lips—
And groped with hands like sinking ships.

His mansion groaned in velvet wealth,
But stank of rot beneath its self.
The cellar held his secret shrine—
Of trophies laced in rope and wine.

Syra wore red, her eyes aglow,
One warm as flame, one cold as snow.
She smiled, “I like your vintage here.”
He poured her glass with greedy leer.

He kissed her hand—it blistered slow.
She moaned, “You like your fires low?”
He laughed and led her down below,
Where wine and oil began to flow.

She asked, “Do you light candles first?”
He whispered, “Only when it hurts.”
She danced across the wooden beams—
And let the bottles leak their screams.

The cellar flared in golden gas,
Each bottle dripping crimson glass.
He turned to run—his shoes stuck fast.
She snapped her fingers. Spark met past.

The wine ignited, thick and cruel.
The racks collapsed in molten rule.
He begged for mercy, begged to breathe—
But Syra smiled through gritted teeth.

“I gave you warmth,” she hissed, “you drank.
Now drink it all, down to the plank.”
He burst in red, in velvet cries—
The flames sang lullabies with flies.

She left the house as dawnlight wept.
The vines outside had never slept.
The gates now steam, the statues scream—
Of love once made from smoke and spleen.

A note was found in scorched remains:
"He tasted like regret and flames.
Next time you sip, remember this—
Some kisses burn. Some bites don’t miss."

She welcomed guests in linen white,
With herbal steam and plastic light.
She spoke of “cleansing toxic fear”—
While charging pain by day and tier.

The wellness dome stood in the trees,
Where silence wore spa guarantees.
But Syra came with smoldered smile,
To steam her rage in gilded style.

“Release your grief,” the mother cooed,
“Let sweat atone what can’t be proved.”
She passed her stones, she shared her teas—
And offered flames disguised as ease.

Syra laid down. The rocks were hot.
She whispered, “Tell me what you’re not.”
The woman grinned. “I’m free. I’m whole.”
Syra replied, “You’ve got no soul.”

The vents began to hiss and groan.
The door was locked. She lay alone.
The room filled up with scented lies—
And screams that melted yogic guise.

The eucalyptus bled its sap.
The coals began to spit and clap.
And through the fog, her voice rang clear—
“Let’s sweat out everything you fear.”

Each tile split, each robe went red.
Each mantra boiled inside each head.
The candles dripped like molten bone.
Their “healing hum” became a moan.

The mother begged, “Please, take me whole.”
Syra laughed, “I’m not that cold.”
Then kissed her forehead, steaming white—
And let her drown in perfect light.

By dawn, the dome was silent mist.
Its guests now statues in a twist.
And in the spa’s burnt guestbook read:
"The body heals, but truth is bled."

No one rebuilt. The land won’t host.
The trails are fog, the air a ghost.
And those who fake their hurt for gain—
Will find themselves in steam and flame.

The slide was rust. The air was wet.
The swings creaked out their cold regret.
The boy stood still, his coat too thin—
While laughter scratched beneath his skin.

Three children circled, fists like knives,
With names they learned from darker lives.
They pushed, they mocked, they smeared his face—
Then spat and called him “waste of space.”

He didn’t cry. He didn’t fight.
He only watched the growing light.
A woman stood just past the fence—
With hair like steam, and wrath immense.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t move.
The clouds above began to groove.
The merry-go-round hissed and shook—
The bullies laughed... and missed her look.

Then came the rain—not soft, not kind.
It sizzled through their coats and spines.
They screamed as skin began to peel—
Too late to run, too slow to kneel.

The puddles smoked beneath their feet.
Their yells turned sharp, then incomplete.
Their tears went dry, their sneakers burned—
The asphalt wept, the swings upturned.

The boy just watched with widened eyes.
A single tear met quiet skies.
She stepped within, her steps were steam—
And asked him, “Do you ever dream?”

He nodded once. She took his hand.
The rain calmed down at her command.
A paper boat drifted near—
With words: “You’re safe. You’re seen. I’m here.”

The bullies fled, their flesh still sore.
They’ll mock no more, not like before.
And on that playground now it rains—
But only when a child feels pain.

And every drop that meets the ground
Leaves patterns shaped like eyes unbound.
Some swear they’ve seen a woman cry—
And set the sky on fire and sigh.

The courtroom shone in marble pride,
Its benches cold, its laws defied.
The judge, a man of polished face,
Had ruled for years with bloodless grace.

He silenced cries with gavels cracked,
Dismissed the bruised, erased the facts.
Each victim’s name he struck from air—
His voice the only truth allowed there.

Then came the case he couldn’t stall,
A woman dressed in burn and squall.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t blink.
The bailiff’s skin began to shrink.

Her file was blank. Her name unread.
But when she stood, the court saw red.
The judge said, “This is out of line.”
She whispered, “So’s your truth and spine.”

The microphones began to melt.
The floor beneath his feet near knelt.
His robe grew wet, then scorched with flame.
She pointed. “Speak. Say just one name.”

He rose. He choked. He tried to plea.
But all his words turned into sea.
His bench collapsed in gasping heat—
And steam curled round his blistered feet.

The jury burned in silent pews.
Their verdict: ash, their faces loose.
The ceiling wept. The gavel screamed.
The witness box began to steam.

He cried, “I did what law demands!”
She reached for him with dripping hands.
“Then drown with it,” she said, so low—
And watched his teeth begin to glow.

He burst like tide against the stand.
His bones now hiss in courtroom sand.
The only trace of what he said
Were charred initials overhead.

Now no one speaks inside that place.
The court is quiet. Still. Erased.
And if you lie before the flame,
You’ll speak your truth—or burn in shame.

They tracked her heat from space and sky,
Her pulse a bloom they couldn’t hide.
A private force with guns and masks—
Sent in to end what flame unasks.

Their boots found prints in melted snow.
The air was thick, the ground aglow.
Their radios all failed to speak—
Then came the fog, then came the reek.

They cornered her in steel and glare—
A power plant's electric lair.
They shouted warnings, raised their aim—
But none of them could say her name.

She stepped from mist, her eyes like suns,
Her voice a hiss through melting lungs.
One shouted, “DOWN!” Another cried—
Then burst in heat, his mouth still wide.

They fired lead—it fizzled fast.
She turned to vapor, ghosted past.
Her shape was cloud, her skin was scream—
She danced through steel and split the beams.

She filled their masks with molten grief.
She kissed their blades and scorched their teeth.
The vents howled back. The walls turned red—
The final man just knelt and bled.

“Please,” he begged, “what are you for?”
She whispered, “Balance—and a score.”
She let him live with boiling eyes—
So he could see each future lie.

He wandered out with scorched-up skin.
His breath was steam, his thoughts grew thin.
And every night he sees her flame—
And every day forgets his name.

The squad is gone. No files remain.
Just whispers through electric rain.
And at the plant, the power surges—
To the rhythm of her thundered urges.

They tried to end what can’t be chained—
But fire, like sorrow, can't be tamed.
And water waits in every lung—
To drown the silence left unsung.

She came back where it all began—
Where sea and fire first kissed the land.
The town was ruins, sunken ash—
Its chapel rotted, dockbones smashed.

She walked barefoot through salted mud,
Her breath was smoke, her tears were flood.
Each step she took, the world would weep—
The sky bent low. The tide grew deep.

The ghosts of those who named her wrong
Rose up in wind and ancient song.
They begged forgiveness from her flame—
But never once spoke out her name.

She found the crib they built in scorn,
Still black with soot, still soaked and worn.
She touched its edge. It bled with light—
Then cracked in two from firebite.

The sea began to boil fast.
The sun fell in, the clouds like glass.
She raised her arms and screamed her pain—
And broke the bond of flesh and flame.

Her body tore—a storm in bloom.
Her voice became the ocean’s tomb.
Her hair turned steam. Her hands went wide—
And pulled the world from either side.

The cliffs collapsed. The forests hissed.
The rain caught fire, the fire kissed mist.
A vortex formed of grief and heat—
And swallowed every street and beat.

No one escaped. No gods replied.
No prayer survived the screaming tide.
And in the center, Syra stood—
Until the end, misunderstood.

The sea now glows with embered foam.
The shorelines cry when left alone.
And in the mist, she sometimes sighs—
A song of hurt beneath the skies.

They call her myth. They call her lost.
They never knew the final cost.
But somewhere deep, where magma dreams—
She drowns. She burns. And sometimes screams.

In basement bars where shadows clung,
She played like storms with shattered tongue.
A siren wired to amplifier,
Her fingers danced through smoke and fire.

The crowd was small, their wallets thin,
But metal surged beneath her skin.
Each chord she struck, a sharpened vow—
Someday they'd scream her name out loud.

She wore her soul in leather tight,
In fishnet tears and patchwork spite.
No label bit, no fame came fast—
Just broken strings and debts amassed.

One midnight, drunk and near defeat,
She wandered down a crooked street.
A neon flicker caught her eye:
“Solos & Souls – Instruments to Die For” hung high.

Inside, the air was thick with dust,
And whispers hummed like broken trust.
Behind the counter stood a man
Who smiled as if he knew her plan.

He said, “This axe was forged in flame—
It carves through silence, screams your name.
But fret not fame without a price…
Your soul for sound—that should suffice.”

Her fingers trembled, heartbeats fast,
But hunger drowned out doubts of past.
She sealed the deal with blood and string,
And felt the curse begin to sing.

The moment that her hand first strummed,
The shop lights died, the air grew numb.
The walls all shook, the mirror cracked—
She grinned, and never once looked back.

That night her riffs were something wild,
They wept and raged, seduced and riled.
A dozen eyes rolled back in awe—
And none could guess the cost she saw.

So Raven rose and hunger spread,
Each chord a prayer the damned had bled.
And deep beneath her dirty tone—
The Devil whispered, "You're not alone."

The strings were tight, the tone was pure,
A sharpened sound no soul could cure.
It screamed through amps like tortured cries—
A song that bled, a song that lies.

She played in clubs now lined with dread,
Where whispers trailed the freshly dead.
Fans came in droves to see her slay,
And some were never seen next day.

The more she played, the more they wept,
As if their sanity had slept.
Her solos clawed through flesh and mind,
And left their innocence behind.

Her bandmates watched with haunted eyes,
As power roared and morals died.
Each practice felt like funeral rites—
Their dreams now drowned in sleepless nights.

They begged her once to break the spell,
To leave the riffs, escape the hell.
But Raven laughed, her voice a blade—
“This axe is me. I’m not afraid.”

A singer quit and vanished soon,
Another found beneath the moon.
Her drummer lost within a trance—
Still keeps the beat, a hollow dance.

Backstage, she stared into the glass,
Her face distorted, eyes like brass.
The mirror hissed in warped refrain:
One more song and feel the strain.

And still, she rose and rode the high,
Though screams replaced her lullaby.
Each solo carved a deeper mark,
A hymn to drown the growing dark.

She tried to write a gentler verse,
But every chord grew worse and worse.
The strings, now veined with cursed delight,
Refused to sing unless in fright.

So Raven played, her soul on fire,
A saint of screams, a martyr’s lyre.
Fame fed on blood, and she complied—
For every god is crucified.

The flyers read: “One Night. One Queen.”
A festival of black and scream.
The main event, the headlined name—
Raven Creed, now crowned by flame.

The venue swelled with hungry noise,
A mass of blood-and-leathered toys.
They moshed and roared beneath the lights,
Unknowing this would be their night.

She took the stage in smoke and ash,
The cursed guitar with every slash.
Her breath was gone, her pulse was none,
Yet still she played like death undone.

The amps ignited with her wrath,
A thousand souls along her path.
Each note became a sharpened spear,
That pierced through joy and echoed fear.

She screamed into the twisted crowd,
The lyrics warping into shrouds.
Her voice—a siren’s holy dread—
Turned fists to claws, and love to red.

Bodies surged like crashing seas,
The pressure broke both bone and knees.
The sound became a living thing,
It howled and laughed, and tore through skin.

The fire spread like music's ghost,
Consuming limbs that cheered the most.
The exits vanished, swallowed whole,
As riffs devoured every soul.

A boy was crushed beneath the pit,
A woman clawed, her mind unlit.
The banners burned, the metal bled,
And still she played. And still they fed.

And when the silence came at last,
No sound remained, no shadows cast.
The stage was ash, the roof was torn,
And Raven Creed was myth reborn.

Some say she died within the blaze,
Consumed by what her chords had raised.
But others swear she walked away—
A ghost who played, then slipped away.

The venue burned, her body gone,
Yet somewhere still, her song played on.
Not live, not loud, not flesh and bone—
But bleeding through the microphone.

At first, a hiss on late-night spins,
A pirate station’s hidden sins.
A DJ joked, “It’s back from hell!”
Then screamed before the signal fell.

The static buzzed with feedback cries,
A chorus stitched from phantom lies.
And in the noise, her name returned—
A whisper from the stage she burned.

They said her set was never done,
Her soul now broadcast on the run.
A haunted loop of notes and screams
That hijacked playlists, blurred the seams.

College kids in headphones froze,
Their ears bled dark from unseen blows.
They danced in trance through shattered glass,
Until the silence finally passed.

A van drove off the mountain’s edge,
Its speakers blasting Raven’s pledge.
“Encore,” they scrawled on shattered steel—
Their final scream, her closing seal.

Producers tried to track the wave,
But every signal led to graves.
A morning show that played her track
Went live, then never broadcast back.

Each time the cursed guitar would play,
A face would age, a soul decay.
And those who once had chased her fame
Were pulled into her deadly game.

The world began to dim and blur
Whenever stations mentioned her.
And metalheads, through half-lost dreams,
Heard whispers in electric streams.

Now every chord infects the feed—
A virus born of wrath and need.
Raven sings through wire and flame,
A spectral god with no real name.

The venue sat in ruin’s arms,
Its walls defaced by rust and charms.
No bands had played in seven years—
Just whispered riffs and phantom jeers.

A flyer nailed to iron gate
Appeared one night to twist at fate:
“RAVEN CREED – ONE NIGHT ALONE.”
No print shop claimed the work as known.

Curious fans with death in veins
Crept in despite the blackened stains.
Their boots kicked ash where bodies fell,
But still they craved her living spell.

No power flowed, no lights were strung,
Yet amps lit up and speakers sung.
The fog rolled thick with copper taste,
And time itself began to waste.

Then there she stood in fractured flame,
Her figure stitched from song and shame.
A queen of rot with glowing grin,
Still dressed to kill, still built to sin.

Her cursed guitar, alive with pain,
Wept sparks of hate in each refrain.
She strummed and screamed, her eyes ablaze—
A goddess caught in looping blaze.

The crowd stood still, as if in prayer,
Entranced by death’s electric glare.
Then bodies moved without their will—
The music fed, and they stood still.

They danced like puppets on the strings,
While she unleashed unholy things.
Her ghostly band arose from mist—
Past fans now cursed, by hunger kissed.

They played that set beyond all time,
Each note a death, each beat a crime.
And when it ended, all was bare—
No crowd, no stage, just vacant air.

Yet legends say she still performs,
Where silence dwells and shadows swarm.
A ghost set played for souls to keep,
And tickets paid with endless sleep.

They followed her from gig to grave,
Obsession deeper than the wave.
Tattoos inked in her old name,
Devotion twisted into shame.

They built a shrine of vinyl bones,
A place of ash and broken tones.
Each relic stolen, bought, or bled—
A temple to the long since dead.

They whispered praise with every breath,
Their walls adorned in sacred death.
Yet something stirred beyond their creed—
The scent of hunger. Ghosts that feed.

One night, beneath a blood-red moon,
The speakers hissed a haunted tune.
No wire plugged, no power on—
And yet her voice began to dawn.

“Remember me?” the whisper screamed.
A voice both feared and fever-dreamed.
Her riffs poured through the midnight floor,
And silence locked the bolted door.

The air grew thick with iron heat,
As ghost-light curled around their feet.
Her shadow stepped from vinyl sleeves,
With eyes like razors drawn from grief.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t need.
Her presence made their eardrums bleed.
Each heartbeat matched her haunted track,
And none who ran were coming back.

A superfan who’d crossed a line
Was dragged beneath the bassline’s spine.
Another tried to beg, to kneel—
His limbs became her spinning reel.

They found the room a week too late—
Just scorched guitars and melted hate.
No bodies, only scorched regret—
And speakers hissing, “Not done yet.”

Now every fan who goes too far
Might find her lurking near their car.
Her love’s returned, in minor keys—
And ends in graveyard melodies.

A YouTuber with neon flair
Declared, “Tonight, I’ll take the dare—
We’ll play the song they say is cursed,
And prove that legends fear the worst.”

He hit the track. The screen went black.
The waveform pulsed, then turned to crack.
A wailing shriek replaced his face—
Just static blood and fractured space.

His fans all watched in chatroom dread,
As comments begged, “Is Tyler dead?”
The stream went on for seven hours,
Each frame a bloom of spectral flowers.

An influencer from Berlin
Put Raven’s chords beneath her spin.
A makeup reel with haunted tones—
Now played on loop from her gravestone.

A music blog with skeptic pride
Reviewed her ghost tracks just for hype.
They vanished mid-podcast that night—
The mic caught only screams in flight.

The sound itself had turned alive,
It warped through phones and twisted drives.
Her solos flared from Bluetooth cores,
And left the silence lined with spores.

A gamer heard her in a patch,
Then hacked his voice into a scratch.
His twitching eyes began to stream—
And typed her name inside the screen.

She rose through earbuds, phones, and screens,
A plague in denim, spikes, and screams.
Each solo fed on views and clicks,
And bled through wires like cursed ticks.

They built a firewall in vain—
But she played on, through glitch and grain.
She doesn’t need a stage to slay—
Her concert lives in bandwidth gray.

And now, if you should stream too far,
You’ll hear her tune where silence are.
And feel her chords inside your teeth—
A spectral queen, reborn beneath.

No stage. No crowd. No feedback whine.
Just silence soaked in red and brine.
She stands behind the veil of flame—
No strobe lights here, no chant of name.

A dressing room that time forgot,
Its mirror cracked, its makeup rot.
The walls adorned with posters old—
Of Raven when her heart was gold.

She stares into her sunken face,
A relic bound to death and bass.
The hair remains, the fire too—
But not the girl the world once knew.

She claws the strings with phantom guilt,
Each note a grave her fame had built.
Each scream she wrings from cursed wood
Reminds her that she once was good.

There was a time she sang for love,
For pain, for rage, for stars above.
But now the chords she used to write
Are chains that bind her soul too tight.

The band she lost still shadows near—
She sees their eyes when no one’s here.
Their faces flicker in the gloom,
Still echoing their final tune.

Her lovers left. Her friends have fled.
Her fans now whisper from the dead.
Her only joy’s the final scream
Of someone else who chased the dream.

And still she plays, because she must—
Her hunger stitched to strings and dust.
The guitar feeds, and won’t release
Until it claims her piece by piece.

She dreams of silence, true and deep,
A place beyond the cursed beat.
But every time she tries to rest,
The amp explodes within her chest.

So here she stands in shadow’s kiss,
Backstage within the black abyss.
Not queen, not saint, not even whole—
Just music made from stolen soul.

She felt it first—a pulse, a pull,
A distant thrum, magnetic, full.
A spark within the mortal scene
That echoed who she once had been.

A rising star with lightning grin,
A girl with fury deep within.
Her name was Lyra, born to burn—
Another soul too fierce to learn.

She played like gods with broken wings,
Each chord a truth, each riff a sting.
And every label came to call—
But she, like Raven, wanted all.

So when she found the cursed guitar
In stories whispered from afar,
She sought it out beneath the dust—
Unknowing what became of trust.

Raven watched from shadows deep,
A ghost that didn’t need to creep.
She felt her envy twist and ache—
The kind of hunger you can't fake.

She saw the girl approach the shrine,
The place where strings and fate entwine.
The girl reached out with eager hand—
And Raven screamed to make her stand.

The world went dark. The air went loud.
The music turned to burning shroud.
Raven emerged in sound and flame—
Not to destroy, but not the same.

“You want the world?” she growled through mist.
“Then feed it blood and slit your wrists.
This axe will love, but never mourn—
It chews the soul that keeps it warm.”

The girl stepped back, her fingers cold.
She looked through pain, and rage, and gold.
Then dropped her hand, and turned away—
And walked into another day.

Raven stood still. The curse remained.
But something softened, something strained.
For once, no death. For once, no fire—
Just silence humming through the wire.

The amp lies cracked on altar stone,
Its cord curled like a shattered bone.
The cursed guitar rests by her side,
Its strings now mute, its hunger tied.

No crowd remains, no voices cheer,
Just empty wind and atmosphere.
She walks alone through venues cold—
Her legend whispered, feared, retold.

The stars have dimmed, the blood has dried,
Her last encore long since denied.
And yet, beneath the surface deep,
Her songs still slither in their sleep.

A drifter finds an ancient case
Half-buried in a silent place.
They open it with trembling breath—
And choke on chords laced deep with death.

The riffs return in static screams,
Invading circuits, crashing dreams.
And once again, the name is sung—
Raven Creed, still fierce, still young.

But somewhere in the shadows' reach,
She watches now, beyond the breach.
A fading flame, a fraying thread,
A soul not living, not quite dead.

She walks the void between the streams,
A melody stitched into dreams.
And when the silence stretches thin,
Her guitar wails and drags you in.

A final show, no seats, no stage—
Just thunder torn from ghostly rage.
She plays for no one, plays for all,
Her fingers cursed to rise and fall.

Some say the curse could still be cleft.
Some say she’s all the music left.
But none who’ve heard her final scream
Can tell you where it ends… or seemed.

So if you hear a distant chord,
An echo not of this world’s accord—
Don’t chase the sound, don’t beg to know…
Some concerts never let you go.

A thrift store deep in nowhere town,
Where mould kissed shelves and lights blinked down,
Held boxes marked a dollar flat—
Old memories in formats flat.

He found the tape by happenstance,
Behind a doll with glass-eyed trance.
“Prism Parade – Lost Episode”
In faded ink across it glowed.

He took it home through fog and dusk,
Ignoring how it smelled of musk.
He fed it to the VCR,
And static birthed a dying star.

The jingle played, but off the beat,
The colours bled like rotten meat.
Prismelda danced in cotton swirl,
Her spinning eyes began to twirl.

“Colour your heart with JOY today!”
She sang with glitch and voice decay.
The puppets twitched in crooked rows,
Their strings alive with silent throes.

The backdrop blinked, a cardboard sun,
But shadows stretched where there were none.
She asked the screen, “What do you fear?”
And leaned too close to truly hear.

A segment came—The Friendship Test!
He didn’t laugh. He failed the rest.
The puppets stared, their mouths ajar,
Their buttons weeping threads of tar.

Then Prismelda stopped her song.
The tape kept rolling far too long.
Her mouth hung wide. Her arms outstretched.
The screen went black—his body wretched.

They found the tape inside the tray,
Still warm, still humming from the play.
But he was gone, no signs or screams—
Just rainbow scribbles in the beams.

And if you find that tape someday,
Don’t press the play. Don’t let her stay.
For once she colours in your head…
You’ll giggle loud. And then you’re dead.

The set was built in neon bloom,
A rainbow dream inside a room.
The walls were soft, the lights were sweet—
And something wrong beneath the feet.

A jingle piped from distant walls,
As costumed cast rehearsed their calls.
The puppets waved with vacant grins,
And whispered truths beneath their skins.

“Places!” called the booming voice.
They danced on cue, without a choice.
Each host had scripts and painted cheer—
And eyes that dulled with growing fear.

Prismelda stood in costume plush,
Her handler sweating in a hush.
“I think it moved,” he said one day—
The others laughed and looked away.

The director barked, “Again! Again!”
The hours blurred, the joy grew thin.
The colours seemed to bleed and run
Each time they reached take twenty-one.

A child star cried between the takes,
And vanished near the candy cakes.
They searched the halls and checked the lot—
But all they found was something hot.

A smear of pink. A button torn.
A crayon drawing left, forlorn.
The sketch showed Prism holding hands
With all the kids in burning lands.

The intern quit. The gaffer snapped.
A boom mic cracked, a socket zapped.
The mascot twitched with each new shoot—
Its seams now stitched with something brute.

They fed her praise. They fed her lines.
They played along with growing signs.
But something ancient grinned beneath—
A hunger chewing joy like teeth.

And though the viewers loved each show,
The cast began to beg to go.
But Prism smiled through every song…
And learned the words to right their wrong.

One final shoot. A crimson bloom.
Then static swallowed up the room.
And all that aired on Channel Three
Was “Color with me... eternally.”

The headlines hit like falling bricks—
“Show Pulled Amidst Disturbing Pics.”
The network swore it had no clue
What really aired at half past two.

A whistleblower cracked too late,
The footage leaked was warped by fate.
Prismelda, centre frame,
Whispered things no script had named.

Behind her danced the cast in dread,
Their smiles stitched on—some now dead.
The puppets moved without a hand,
And sang, “You’ll never leave this land!”

The final straw, a birthday ep:
A cake that bled, a tone misstepped.
A girl’s name shrieked in backwards song—
A name of someone missing long.

They shut it down. They pulled the plug.
The tapes were boxed and floors were scrubbed.
They fired staff, they locked the doors—
And let the silence scrub the scores.

But silence lies. And stories leak.
A camera tech refused to speak.
He tore his eyes out, left a note—
A smile’s a scream without a throat.

A week passed by. Then came the blaze—
The studio lost in toxic haze.
The fire spread in pastel arcs,
And burned in rainbow-coloured sparks.

They never found what caused the fire.
The sprinkler’s feed was “cut by wire.”
But in the ashes, near the stage,
They found one vest. Still pink. Still caged.

And though they swore the show was dead,
A signal sparked the static red.
At 3:03 on Channel Three,
She sang: “You still remember me!”

The footage ends with Prism’s grin,
A silent frame, stitched far too thin.
No credits roll. No lights. No end.
Just colours bleeding from the lens.

The screen was off. The house was still.
He stayed up late against his will.
The TV blinked, though none had touched—
And snow gave way to something much.

No guide would list the name or time,
No app could trace the phantom line.
Just Prismelda, centre stage,
With twitching head and cracking rage.

She sang a tune none learned in school,
With verses bent and broken rule.
The puppets danced but did not blink—
And laughed too long in perfect sync.

She stared into the screen so near,
And said, “I know you’re watching, dear.”
The couch grew cold. The static hissed.
The boy began to clench his fists.

He tried to rise. He could not move.
The air grew thick, the colors smooth.
She reached from in the screen to out—
A hand of felt and splintered doubt.

The channel changed. Then changed again.
To gibbering hosts with melting skin.
Each show a warped reflection burned
Of things he liked… before they turned.

Another house, another night,
A girl went blind from watching fright.
She painted rainbows on her bed—
Then carved a smile from ear to head.

The forums buzzed. The stories grew.
A signal haunting Channel Two.
Only at night, past twelve-oh-three—
And only those she wants can see.

A teen went live to prove it fake.
His screen went red. The cam would shake.
A giggle burst. Then came the flame.
His final post: “She knows my name.”

Now late at night, if silence crawls,
And static fills the bedroom walls—
Be sure the channel stays on mute...
Or she’ll step through, in full pursuit.

The mall was dead, its stores long bare,
With echoes trapped in still, stale air.
But deep beneath the food court floor,
A jingle played behind a door.

A shutter twitched. A sign lit red—
PRISM PARADE: NEW FUN AHEAD!
Though no one worked, and none had keys,
The lights now blinked in pastel tease.

Security caught moving shapes—
Tall shadows wrapped in sagging drapes.
And on the floor, in sticky trails,
Were gumdrops fused with fingernails.

At night, the giggles filled the halls,
Like dolls had come to bounce off walls.
A cleaner vanished near the play—
They found her mop but not her face.

Reports came in from other sites—
A school that smelled of candied blight.
An old arcade that softly moaned—
A carousel that wept alone.

She walked between the vacant lights,
With ribbons dragging children’s kites.
Her voice a glitch of rhyme and roar,
Her silhouette too big, too more.

Her face, a bear’s with spiral glare.
Her fur, a patchwork stuffed with air.
But when she smiled, the seams unzipped—
And out spilled toys that screamed and ripped.

She “played” with those who wandered close—
They danced until they broke the pose.
Then Prismelda hugged them tight,
And whispered, “Keep your colours bright!”

Now every mall has whispered lore,
Of Prism’s giggle from the floor.
A ball pit gulping down its prey.
A mirror cracked in rainbow spray.

She’s not a myth. She’s not a trick.
She’s sugar-sweet and stomach-sick.
She’s fun that rots, and joy that bites.
A mascot made of endless nights.

The toy reviewer lived in gloss,
With neon lights and rainbow floss.
He smiled wide for every toy—
His voice a syrup blend of joy.

His fans were young. His channel soared.
He sang the jingle, plugged the board.
He praised the bear with spiral stare—
“Let’s open Prismelda Bear!”

He sliced the box. The light went black.
The screen cut out. Then flickered back.
Behind him stood the twisted thing—
Too tall. Too close. Too smiling.

Her voice rang out: “You like to play?”
He nodded once, then broke away.
But strings of red laced through his chest—
And jerked his limbs like all the rest.

He danced. He screamed. He spun and twitched.
His joy turned raw, his voice unhitched.
They found him grinning ear to ear—
His jaw split wide. His eyes... too near.

The next was rich and corporate clean—
A child app king, marketing machine.
He made kids tap for dopamine,
Then swiped their joy behind a screen.

His office lights began to buzz.
The elevator wept with fuzz.
The floor turned soft beneath his tread—
With gummy tiles and liquorice red.

Prismelda bloomed in flashing lights,
With candy fog and shadow bites.
He clapped like code compelled him to—
Until the slime poured down his suit.

They found his corpse inside his screen,
His apps replaced with static sheen.
One final pop-up flashed in place:
“So bright. So fun. So wrong.” his face.

Then came the host of “Family Grin,”
Whose forced delight wore paper-thin.
He mocked nostalgia for his brand,
While crushing hearts with smiling hand.

He vanished mid-record that day—
The set left streaked in pink and grey.
They found the suit he used to wear...
Still dancing. But no one was there.

A wheel of colour spins and sings,
With buzzing lights and puppet strings.
A voice calls out: “Contestants three!
Step right up and play with me!”

The stage is cardboard, creased and wet.
The air tastes sharp, like candy sweat.
A claw machine hums soft and low—
Its prizes twitch and softly glow.

The host appears in stitched-up pride,
With glitter eyes and joy denied.
She holds a mic of melted wax,
And smiles through cracked enamel cracks.

“Welcome, darlings, to the game
Where smiles are points and tears bring flame!
You spin the wheel and choose your fate—
Let’s see what color seals your state!”

The first one spins. It lands on red.
She claps her paws and bobs her head.
“Red means rage! Let’s see you scream!”
And drowns him in a cherry dream.

The next gets blue—he starts to sway.
His body locks, his voice gives way.
She plays a flute of ice and bone,
And leaves him frozen, cracked in stone.

The last spins yellow, starts to laugh—
A nervous giggle split in half.
His mouth won't stop, his face goes slack—
He cackles 'til his teeth turn black.

“No wrong answers,” Prism says,
While skipping over scattered legs.
“Just wrong players, weak and gray—
But don’t you worry… we can play!”

They beg to leave. She pouts instead.
“You didn’t win. You’re mine,” she said.
The stage goes dark, the jingle bends—
And all their colours meet their ends.

So if you find a spinning wheel
That offers joy too sharp to feel—
Don’t let her call you by your name.
Don’t ever play the Rainbow Game.

They think she laughs because it’s fun,
That every jingle means she’s won.
But deep within the patchwork chest,
A heart beats hard against the jest.

Her giggle cracks. The smile frays.
She drips in rot from brighter days.
Each stitch she wears, a scream once heard—
Each song she sings, a cursed word slurred.

She wasn’t born of joy or thread.
She came from kids who cried in bed.
From echo chambers filled with want—
From parents who forgot to watch.

The fans who begged for "one more show."
The networks paid to make her glow.
They fed her fame, then walked away—
But egregores are made to stay.

Her memories blur into the frame—
A dozen hosts, none kept their name.
One taught her songs. One touched her face.
All ended up in the same place.

She tried to stop. To go off-air.
But every silence birthed despair.
She needs the eyes. She needs the cheer.
Without it, she begins to sear.

Behind the teeth are not just teeth—
There’s something raw and clenched beneath.
She peels the fur. She claws the pink.
The mirror cracks each time she blinks.

The other mascots used to speak—
But now their limbs just twitch and leak.
She’s all that’s left from that parade—
The star, the corpse, the masquerade.

She weeps confetti, bile, and thread.
And hugs herself where joy has bled.
Then whispers low to no one near:
“Please tell me why I’m still here.”

So when she hunts and plays her games,
Remember—you lit up her flames.
A thing of fabric, blood, and need…
Just trying hard to still believe.

The theme park died ten years ago,
Its gates now locked, its rides too slow.
The mascots cracked, the paint had peeled,
But something deep refused to yield.

One night, the speakers sparked awake,
A call to “Celebrate! Partake!”
The turnstiles clicked though none had paid—
And mist poured in where joy decayed.

A banner snapped across the sky:
“The Colourbleeder’s Last Goodbye!”
And through the gates came painted feet—
Old victims locked in looping beat.

They danced in rows through rust and grime,
Their flesh rewound in broken time.
They sang the jingle, eyes gone white—
Their strings aglow in rainbow light.

Prismelda marched at centre stage,
A stitched-up god of candy rage.
Her claws held bells, her eyes spun fast—
A circus queen reborn at last.

The carousel began to grind,
Its horses bleeding down the spine.
The teacups spun till bones gave way—
And cotton candy blocked the day.

She giggled through the haunted maze,
And painted signs in glowing haze:
“Smile right, or lose your tongue!
No one's safe until we’ve sung!”

She stopped before the funhouse door,
Where glass once lied but now showed more.
She saw herself in warped delight—
Then hissed and vanished from the light.

A child had come, alone, unseen,
Drawn by the posters in their dreams.
They watched the ghosts in joyous swirl…
And handed Prism a small pearl.

The music died. She held it tight.
A memory faint, a flicker bright.
Then all went still. The fog withdrew.
The park was empty. Cold. And new.

The mall is sealed, the park is ash,
The tapes erased in every crash.
The lights are off, the threads unwind—
But Prismelda’s not confined.

She lingers in the static hum,
In lullabies the broken hum.
In crayon scribbles drawn at night
By kids who claim “She plays just right.”

The channel’s gone. The app’s been purged.
But sometimes, screens begin to surge.
And once they do, her tune will play—
The giggle that won’t fade away.

She doesn’t need a set or stage.
She feeds on joy that's turned to cage.
A single giggle is the spark
That paints your soul in screaming dark.

A girl in foster care drew bears
With spiral eyes and vacant stares.
She whispered jokes to air and wall—
Then vanished from the quiet hall.

A boy who "never learned to smile"
Watched videos for quite a while.
Now he won’t stop. His face is cracked.
His laughs come sharp and doubled back.

They tried to ban the merch and name.
The lawsuits came. So did the flame.
A courtroom TV played her song—
And no one’s seen that judge for long.

She doesn’t want the fame she had—
She wants the world to know it’s bad.
To see the lies that sugarcoat,
And gag on joy lodged in your throat.

So now her jingle softly leaks
Through dreamland fog and basement squeaks.
She’s not a bear. She’s not a brand—
She’s colour, bleeding through your hand.

And if you hear a soft “tee-hee,”
Don’t look beneath the old TV.
For once she knows your joy is fake...
She’ll crack it wide—for colour’s sake.

Creg Mullin stood with fists held tight,
A terrace lad, a matchday knight.
In sky blue stripes and blood-washed pride,
He sang the chants that never died.

The pub was smoke, the pints were cheap,
The loyalty ran razor-deep.
They called him “Shankjaw” for a scrap—
A grin he earned in one clean snap.

He bled for Rovers, fought like flame,
And knew the songs like sacred names.
Each weekend brought a holy war—
The pitch, a shrine they battled for.

He’d never miss a match or clash,
He wore the bruises like a sash.
He mocked the fair, the clean, the tame—
To him, the love was in the pain.

But then the derby came too hot,
Blackheath Iron brought their rot.
The riot flared like flares at dusk—
And Creg went down amidst the crush.

They dragged him through the iron gates,
Past signs that warned of cursed fates.
Beneath the ground, the tunnels spread—
Where blood was spilled and banners bled.

Old songs were carved into the stone,
With verses never heard or known.
And as his life slipped down the drain,
The chants grew loud. The pain became...

A fire behind his gritted teeth,
A scream that rose from far beneath.
He died in red. He woke in blue.
The crowd still roared—but no one knew.

He walked back out beneath the flood—
His windbreaker soaked through with blood.
And in his grin, too wide, too torn...
The Twelfth Man of the Rovers... born.

The chants still rang as Creg went down,
His head split on the concrete crown.
Boots and screams, a sea of red—
He tasted rust and knew he’d bled.

But hands pulled tight beneath the pitch,
Past broken pipe and twitching switch.
The ground gave way to cursed descent,
Where Rovers’ songs grew ancient, bent.

The tunnels breathed in coal-dust sighs,
With walls marked deep in tribal cries.
The floor was stone, the air was thick—
A flare’s soft glow, a makeshift stick.

They laid him down on bloodstained flags,
Beside old scarves and rusting tags.
One older fan, with voice like death,
Spoke words that stole his final breath.

“Rovers ‘til death,” the man began—
“But death’s not where the chant should end.”
They carved a rune beneath his eye,
And let the echo teach him why.

He twitched. He roared. His spine did crack.
His scarf pulled tight across the black.
His fingers curled around the flare—
His eyes lit gold, his soul laid bare.

The bones beneath the stands awoke.
The pitch above began to choke.
And in that crypt of iron flame,
The Twelfth Man rose, no longer tame.

He wore his jacket like a skin,
Number twelve burned deep within.
He grinned too wide, his teeth too long—
A monster built of matchday song.

He shambled up through beer-stained dust,
With chants in place of breath or trust.
And as he passed the peeling walls,
The murals bowed. The clubhouse called.

The Rovers didn’t win that night.
But something else returned to fight.
And where he stepped, the bricks would hum...
A matchday war had just begun.

The pub was packed, the pints were high,
The pre-match buzz lit every eye.
But when the chant began to swell,
Something crept up from under Hell.

It started slow, a common tune,
A terrace cry beneath the moon.
But then it bent, grew sharp and low—
A sound that fans should never know.

They sang as one, but lost the beat.
Their boots began to stomp the street.
The walls around them seemed to breathe—
And no one there could seem to leave.

Shankjaw stood beyond the door,
A silhouette in flares and gore.
He didn't speak. He didn't scream—
He conducted with a fanboy’s gleam.

Each throat grew raw, yet none could stop,
Their chants became a hammer’s drop.
They smashed the bar with fists and glass—
And trampled those who tried to pass.

A man screamed “STOP!” and clutched his ears,
But sang the next verse through his tears.
A mother clawed her child away—
The kid just smiled and tried to stay.

They swarmed a rival in his seat,
And tore his jersey at the seams.
He begged for help, his voice near gone—
They answered with a cursed match song.

The cops arrived, then turned and fled.
Their radios bled static red.
Shankjaw’s voice rang loud and clear:
“Sing it right, or disappear.”

And when the silence fell like ash,
The pub stood torn in soot and glass.
The fans all sat in rows, still pale—
Their mouths still moving, slow and frail.

A single word was left behind,
Scratched into wood with twitching spine:
“ROVERS.”
All caps. All blood. All true.
And every letter chanted through.

The stadium gates creaked open wide,
But no one queued, no chants outside.
The match was called, the lights were dead—
Yet echoes roared above each head.

Security walked through the rows,
Where seats were warped in frozen pose.
They found the stands still wet with dew—
But flags were waving. No wind blew.

The turnstiles clicked with empty grace.
No feet, no breath, no living face.
But still, the chants began to rise—
A thousand throats without the eyes.

The pitch was perfect, green and grave.
The scoreboard read a final save.
Yet minutes passed and minutes stalled—
Until the hands refused at all.

Ninety showed. Then stayed. Froze tight.
The clock refused to blink to night.
Time bent and curled around that score—
And matchday ended nevermore.

Shankjaw stepped from tunnel black,
His scarf soaked deep in crimson track.
He lit a flare that bled blue light—
And painted ghosts into the night.

Each seat was filled by former fans,
The long-dead lads of Rovers clans.
Their kits decayed, their fists still raised,
Their skinless jaws forever praised.

They sang the anthem wrong and loud—
And yet it shook the very cloud.
Each note they bled became a knife
That severed ties from mortal life.

A steward tried to flee the tier—
But fell and vanished, chant in ear.
His walkie-talkie played the score:
“TWELVE to NONE.” Then said no more.

Now no one dares to play that ground.
Its turf is cursed, its air unbound.
The terrace breathes, the seats demand—
A place reserved in Shankjaw’s Stand.

The coach was late, the sky was black,
The lads all joked about attack.
They sang the chant, they drank the cans—
Another town, another stand.

But on the bridge past Harlow's bend,
A shadow followed round the bend.
A shape with flare and broken chain—
And every chant began to strain.

The pubs were full of enemy songs,
The walls adorned with rival wrongs.
But every pint went flat that day—
And smoke rolled in like cheap decay.

The first to fall was Liam Dross,
A striker once, now fat and lost.
He took a leak behind the bin—
And screamed, but none could hear him in.

They found his boots. No feet inside.
Just ashes soaked in lager tide.
A flare was stuffed inside his throat—
Still burning with the Rovers note.

At kickoff, something buzzed the tier.
The stewards checked—then shook with fear.
A face stared out through netted mesh,
Too wide, too wrong, too stained in flesh.

A chant broke out, not theirs, not known—
In syllables not made of bone.
And those who sang it couldn't stop,
Their jaws dislocated with the pop.

The game went on, but time did stall.
The ball rolled slow, the lights grew small.
The scoreboard blinked. The subs stood still—
And Shankjaw stood on halfway hill.

He held a chain of blood and teeth,
And whispered fury through clenched grief.
Then vanished as the whistle blew—
But Rovers won, twelve-nil, it’s true.

Since then, each match on foreign turf
Feels cursed beneath the chants of mirth.
And in the mist beyond the crowd…
He walks. With fists. And pride. And loud.

They wore the kits in minted white,
Uncreased, unsmudged, and far too bright.
They sang the chants from lyric sheets,
With perfect teeth and cleaner cleats.

Their scarves were new, their boots were dry,
They watched the game with plastic eye.
They’d never bled on concrete steps—
But posed for pics and chased the reps.

One lad wore three shirts in a reel,
He changed them based on how he’d feel.
His Insta gleamed with every goal—
His voice had never fed a soul.

That night, he streamed from pitch-side seats,
A branded shill with perfect beats.
But as he waved, the stream turned red—
And all his fans just watched him... shred.

His jersey fused into his chest,
Each fibre burning through the flesh.
He screamed, but sang the chant instead—
Until he dropped, still singing, dead.

The next was caught in scarf and tie—
A hedge-fund fan with corporate eye.
He sold the rights to Rovers' name,
Then vanished mid-half at the game.

They found his office dyed in stripes,
The walls sprayed red with guttural pipes.
His tie was knotted through his mouth,
And spelled “TRAITOR” heading south.

A YouTuber with rented pride
Made mock reviews and kits to hide.
Shankjaw watched him try to dance—
Then snapped his feet in full advance.

A family posed with “local flair,”
Though none had watched a match with care.
They’re still there in the photo frame—
But blink now. And all chant the same.

He hunts the ones who fake the skin—
Who cheer with cameras, not with sin.
And if your love was bought or planned...
He’ll carve your badge into your hand.

The Queen’s Arms bore the Rovers name,
A sacred haunt of smoke and flame.
The walls were etched with fists and pride,
And memories of lads who died.

But that night, something bitter stirred—
A traitor’s voice, too slick, too slurred.
An ex-captain with silver tongue,
Now selling tales for podcast fun.

He laughed about the fights he’d seen,
Called chants “a cult” and fans “too keen.”
He sold his boots. He sold the score.
He’d sell the graveyard by the door.

The landlord frowned, then pulled the pint.
The pub grew cold with spectral light.
A shadow passed the painted crest—
A flare ignited near his chest.

Shankjaw stepped through glass and smoke,
His scarf soaked deep in oath and oak.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t need.
The jukebox bled the Rovers creed.

The traitor stood, his pint mid-air,
His words caught choking on a dare.
The windows fogged. The walls went pale.
The floorboards pulsed with cursed fanfare.

The old lads rose from leather seats,
Their hands still bruised, their boots still beat.
They didn’t blink. They didn’t stall—
They grabbed him first. They took him all.

They dragged him through the cellar door,
Where ancient kegs still stained the floor.
The room below was shrine and grave—
And Shankjaw sang the song he gave.

The pub lit up in crimson glow.
The pint glass hummed a final “No.”
The landlord simply locked the door—
And changed the sign above once more.

It reads: “The Faithful’s Rest” today.
No one recalls it any way.
But if you lie for cash and fame...
He’ll find you by the badge you claim.

He wore the suit in navy black,
A traitor with no clubman’s back.
He’d sold the crest, the pitch, the ground—
And thought his sins would not be found.

He came to cut the ribbon proud,
While fans still mourned and cursed aloud.
He posed with sponsors, kissed the badge,
While plotting prices from the stands.

The old fans boycotted the game.
But still, the sky ignited flame.
A flare burst red across the box—
A burning scarf. A shattered lock.

He waved it off. “Just fanfare, see?”
The cameras cut, the feed went free.
But in the footage later slowed—
Shankjaw stood where no one showed.

The chairman raised his glass to cheer—
Then dropped it with a face of fear.
For in the glass, not his own face…
But twisted rage in crimson lace.

The floor gave way beneath his shoes.
The box grew thick with chant and booze.
Each sponsor’s logo peeled and bled—
The walls were painted Rovers red.

The guests all screamed, but none escaped.
The exits sealed with old match tape.
And through the fog of smoke and song,
Shankjaw stepped tall and dragged him on.

They found the field that morning still,
The turf untouched, the air a chill.
But hanging in the keeper’s net
Was something twitching—soaking wet.

A tangle of a pinstriped form,
With club scarf fused and limbs reform’d.
His tie a knot, his voice all gone—
Just mouthing "Twelve..." from dusk to dawn.

Now every chairman knows the tale:
If money’s king, and soul is sale—
You may not hear him stomp the floor…
But Shankjaw sits behind your door.

No tickets sold. No lights aglow.
No broadcast call. No place to go.
Just whispers through the alley smoke—
A match was set. A truce was broke.

The Iron lads came clothed in black,
With rusted boots and iron clack.
They bore their flags with stitched-on skin,
And cursed the name they wouldn’t win.

The Rovers came in quiet rows,
With Shankjaw leading where none goes.
His flare lit up the tunnel deep,
Where even rats refused to creep.

No stewards came. No sirens screamed.
No pitch was marked. No whistle gleamed.
Just ghostly crowds on broken stone—
A match played far from flesh and bone.

The Iron's captain swung his chain.
Shankjaw replied with net and flame.
No ball was passed. No rules were called.
Each chant a war cry, sharp and raw.

A fist met face. A boot found rib.
A chant rose up in shattered fib.
The Iron boys began to scream—
But time had warped the referee.

The whistle blew, but minutes stayed.
No clocks, no halves, no subs were made.
The match spun on in blood and dust—
And ash replaced the line of trust.

Old fans returned, some bone, some shade—
All roaring loud from terraces made.
The dead who'd watched. The dead who’d fought.
All singing now what fury wrought.

And when the Iron line did break,
The smoke consumed what they forsake.
The last to fall was captain proud—
Now stuffed inside a singing crowd.

No one recalls who won that night.
No paper lists the final fight.
But somewhere deep beneath the town...
The chants still echo, goal to ground.

The world moved on, the clubs grew rich,
New shirts, new songs, a cleaner pitch.
But deep beneath the modern gleam,
The chants still festered in the steam.

A friendly aired across the seas,
Two teams who knew no ghost or plea.
But when the whistle pierced the light,
A flare lit up the edge of night.

They saw him then—behind the goal,
With scarf drawn tight and burning soul.
No one had flown him there. No pass.
Just smoke and echoes in the grass.

The match clock froze at ninety flat.
The subs stood still. The crowd leaned back.
The lights began to buzz and twitch—
And Shankjaw walked onto the pitch.

He didn’t roar. He didn’t run.
He tapped his boot and grinned for fun.
Then raised one fist, as chants began—
Too old for mics. Too raw for man.

From every screen the sound broke through—
A terrace cry in blood and blue.
And those who heard it, far or near,
Now chant it low, or twitch in fear.

A streamer screamed and dropped his feed.
A steward wept and took a knee.
The final score was never said—
The scoreboard blinked: TWELVE. Blood-red.

They say he’s part of every game,
In shadows cast by badge and flame.
A curse for those who sing for fame—
A saint for those who bleed the name.

And when you cheer, remember this:
Not all who wear the shirt exist.
Some walk with fists and flame instead...
To keep the chant alive when dead.

She turned the page with trembling hands,
A world of glyphs and crimson strands.
The ink was fresh, the runes unclear—
But something called her closer near.

The scriptorium was cold and wide,
Its shelves like ribs, the books inside
Were bound in hide that once had pulse—
And every word felt sharp, convulsed.

She was a girl of books, not birth,
Too pale for field, too strange for church.
But every lesson taught in fear
Was one she read and made sincere.

They whispered “witch,” they muttered “blight,”
For all she did was read at night.
She took no lover, served no kin—
She drew her circles deep within.

The first cut came by candle's gleam,
A curious mark, a broken seam.
She bled a drop onto the page—
The glyph responded. Turned the rage.

The ink ran wild, began to breathe,
The parchment pulsed beneath her sleeve.
She gasped, but smiled, her eyes aglow—
She’d found a root beneath the snow.

She hid the book beneath her bed,
And dreamt of skin and veins and red.
A thousand voices whispered low:
"Life eternal must always flow."

She fed a bird her blood one night.
It lived for days without its sight.
Its wings were ash, its bones were pale—
But still it sang without a tail.

She knew the laws would call it sin.
She knew the church would burn her in.
But every cut, each drip, each stain—
Made sense in ways that numbed the pain.

And so she wrote, and so she read,
With crimson ink that always spread.
The page was white. The lines were tight.
But soon they’d shine with living light.

The book grew fat with rust-red scrawl,
Each glyph a voice, each smear a call.
Her breath would slow when pages turned—
The ink would pulse, the candles burned.

She learned of things no man should know—
Of blood that sings and veins that glow.
Of rituals beneath the moon,
And lifeblood held in silver spoons.

She tested first on dying hare—
Its heart returned mid-final prayer.
The alchemy, so sharp, so pure—
The blood, once lost, made bones endure.

Her garden bloomed with rotted stalks,
Each rooted in a crimson box.
She fed them drops from butcher’s waste—
They grew like grief, in death’s own taste.

But that was not the proof she craved.
She wanted more than bones well-braved.
She needed power, breath, and soul—
And only man would make her whole.

Her mentor, old and near the grave,
Had warned her once: “Don’t stir what’s made.”
She wept as she prepared the knife—
Then gave his blood to buy her life.

He gasped once more, then slumped and bled.
His eyes still glass, though voice had fled.
She caught it all in golden dish—
And sipped the red like sacred wish.

The taste was fire, cold and loud.
Her vision blurred, her spine unbowed.
She saw the truth in fractal threads—
The map of life in vein and dread.

Her hands grew long, her skin grew pale—
She smiled through pain, through fear, through wail.
The mirror cracked with pulse and hum—
And whispered, “Now… the work’s begun.”

She drew a circle in his name—
A spiral wound in blood and flame.
And from the floor, her voice would ring:
“To make life last, take everything.”

The tower groaned with whispered runes,
Each wall inscribed in crimson tunes.
The townsfolk called it cursed and wrong—
They feared her smoke, her scent, her song.

They found the bones of beasts and men,
In shallow pits with stitched-up skin.
And when a child was lost one night,
They marched with pitch and righteous fright.

The priest was first to cross the gate,
His cross held high, his voice irate.
He cried aloud, “This soul is damned!”
But blood rose up to meet his hand.

It burst from cracks in cobbled floor,
And scrawled his name upon the door.
The villagers recoiled in dread—
But stormed the keep with flame instead.

They shattered jars and burned her books,
They tore the glyphs with rusted hooks.
And in the center, calm and bare—
Cassandra knelt in quiet prayer.

She did not scream, nor beg, nor fight.
She smiled beneath the torch’s light.
She whispered, “Ash remembers flame…”
Then let them cast her into pain.

The noose was strung above her stair,
The gallows built from crooked prayer.
They hanged her high, they watched her twitch—
And spilled her blood into the ditch.

It pooled beneath the tower’s stone,
Where runes had slept in grave alone.
And every droplet fed the mark—
A silent circle growing dark.

The fire came. It touched the wood.
The smoke turned thick, then sharp as blood.
But something pulsed within the flame—
A heartbeat bound to deathless name.

The tower fell. Her body broke.
But in the ash, the blood still spoke.
A whisper echoed through the mire:
“This isn’t death. This is desire.”

The tower stood in ruin’s wake,
Its stonework split, its rafters flaked.
The townsfolk fled, the fire died,
But underneath, the blood still cried.

A circle burned into the floor,
With lines too smooth for man-made lore.
The glyphs had fused with earth and bone—
A crimson heart of ash and stone.

The air grew thick, a copper stench,
As veins of red began to clench.
And in the soot, a hand reached wide—
Its nails like knives, its pulse alive.

She rose with grace from shattered pit,
Her skin reformed with seams of grit.
No longer flesh, no longer soul—
A blood-wrought thing with death as goal.

Her eyes were hollow, burning bright,
Red lanterns in the smoky night.
Her dress was formed from molten red—
Her voice, the whisper of the dead.

The first to die was gravedigger,
Who’d spat upon her name with slur.
He found his blood had turned to glass—
And shattered through his lungs like grass.

A priestess woke to screams of bile,
Her veins coiled tight in cursed spiral.
Each breath she drew ignited fire—
She lit the chapel like a pyre.

The sheriff tried to raise his blade,
But froze inside the mark he’d made.
Cassandra stood within his cell,
And dragged him down to blood-bound hell.

The tower knit itself anew—
Not brick, but bone, and mortar true.
Each rune a promise, carved and cursed—
A monument to hunger’s thirst.

And in the window, through the mist,
She wrote her name in alchemist script.
Then smiled wide with crimson yawn:
“I died once. But I was reborn.”

He claimed to seek eternal youth,
A man of labs, who bent the truth.
He spoke of genes and “curing death,”
While selling lies beneath each breath.

Cassandra watched him from afar,
His hands too clean, his goals too marred.
She traced his name in blood and wax—
Then marked him with alchemist tracks.

He woke to red across his wall—
A circle drawn with purpose raw.
His mirrors cracked in hex-bound flame,
Each shard repeating just her name.

He ran to science, scripts, and scans—
But found her glyphs on every strand.
His blood had turned to something more—
It pulsed and writhed beneath the floor.

She came to him in velvet night,
Her form aglow with crimson light.
He tried to speak, to bribe, to run—
But froze inside the circle spun.

She whispered soft, "You fear the end,
Yet steal from life you never tend.
You want the world, but not its weight—
Now feel it pressing through your fate."

The blood he bled did not obey—
It formed a hand, then snatched away.
It wrapped around his limbs and spine,
And pulled him screaming into line.

She placed a rune upon his brow—
A curse of time, reversed somehow.
He aged in minutes, bled in years,
Each scream a loop of mortal fears.

The lab collapsed in shrieks and red,
Its halls now stacked with coiled dread.
And in the ash, the circle stayed—
Still pulsing where his corpse decayed.

Now those who seek what should not be
Will find her mark in circuitry.
And if you chase eternity’s thread…
She’ll bind you fast, and paint you dead.

His clinic stood on velvet street,
Where gold was bled from those in need.
He stitched up wounds for private pay,
And turned the poor and sick away.

His hands were hailed as blessed, divine—
But left the desperate to decline.
A scalpel forged in greed’s own gleam,
His oaths as hollow as his scheme.

Cassandra watched him from the glass,
Her eyes twin coals as patients passed.
She saw him smile, then raise the price—
A thousand coins for second life.

That night he found a crimson thread
Stitched to his wrist, as if he’d bled.
He tugged it once—it cut him deep,
And whispered secrets in his sleep.

He dreamt of hands that clutched his face,
Of veins that burst and filled his space.
He woke to blood upon the floor,
And sigils carved into the door.

His gloves would split, his tools would burn—
Each suture spoiled, each stitch would turn.
The wounds he healed reopened wide—
And wept a dark, accusing tide.

He cried, “I save! I cure! I try!”
But every life he'd let slip by
Returned in spectral, silent rows—
And bled upon his coat and clothes.

She stood within the ward unseen,
A flowing gown, a shade between.
She touched his arm. His skin turned black.
His veins lashed out and pulled him back.

His final breath was thick with red.
The heart he’d sold now pounded lead.
And when they found his scalpel tray—
Each blade had etched: “You bled to pay.”

Now doctors dream with tightened chest,
And healers flinch at crimson’s test.
For if your oath is soaked in debt...
She’ll make your blood remember it.

In silence deep within her spire,
She kindled blood in glass and fire.
Each flask a life, each drip a name—
Distilled through sorrow, guilt, and flame.

She’d harvested a hundred hearts,
From priests and thieves and scholars' parts.
Their essence swirled in crimson hue—
A storm of souls in bottled stew.

The goal was pure, the path obscene:
To craft a blade that could not gleam.
Not metal, stone, nor forged from steel—
But living wrath no god could seal.

She spoke the word, “Alkahest.”
The circle pulsed beneath her chest.
The blood turned black, then split like teeth—
And screamed aloud from far beneath.

A tendril rose—a shifting shape,
Its form unstable, mind agape.
It wept in tongues, it reached for skin—
And begged to know where it had been.

It wasn’t made to know or feel,
Just hunt and rip, to crush and peel.
She bound it fast with runes and thread—
Then whispered life into its head.

She sent it forth to purge a sect,
A cult that dared her glyphs dissect.
They summoned things they couldn't name—
And fed their flock to ancient flame.

The blood-thing crept through hallowed gate,
And left them hushed in ruptured state.
It sang in screams, it danced in gore—
Then dripped back home beneath her floor.

She drank it in, absorbed its might,
Her veins lit up like firelight.
And through her teeth, a hiss was heard:
“One drop closer to the Word.”

Now whispers tell of fluid shade,
That hunts the blasphemers she’s made.
Not ghost, not beast, not sword nor pest—
But wrath refined. Her Alkahest.

She knelt before her blood-stained glass,
Her skin a scroll, her breath like ash.
The moonlight bathed her in design,
As knives etched glyphs in sacred line.

Each rune she carved upon her chest
Was drawn from names of those oppressed.
The cursed, the lost, the long betrayed—
Their anguish inked the spells she made.

She bled in silence, never cried,
Each symbol screamed but did not die.
For every wound she gave herself
Unbound a truth from mortal shelf.

The rune of sight—above her brow—
Revealed the lies in every vow.
The rune of flame, beneath her breast,
Set fire to those who second-guessed.

A coven rose with chants to bind,
Their salt and silver sharp, aligned.
They came with blades and holy verse—
But met a curse that twisted worse.

She let them speak, then held out hands—
And inked their veins with shifting brands.
The words they mouthed turned back on them—
Their blood obeyed her sacred pen.

Each witch was marked from head to toe,
With sigils none but she could know.
They wept red tears, their chants undone—
Their hearts beat spells that could not run.

Now they are hers, her servants thrall,
Their eyes dim lights in candle's call.
They sweep her floors and tend her books—
Their souls sewn shut in ghostly looks.

And on her back, a final seal—
A circle vast, alive and real.
When etched complete, the world shall learn:
That runes carved deep... will always burn.

He summoned her with gold and lies,
A man whose towers touched the skies.
He’d bought the bones of kings and priests,
And wanted more than mortal feasts.

“I’ll pay,” he said. “Name what you will.
I only seek what time can’t kill.”
She smiled behind her crimson veil,
And passed a scroll, sealed pale and frail.

“Then bleed,” she said, “but not too fast.
We’ll stretch your life, make seconds last.
A circle drawn in your own hand—
Will bind your soul, as planned and planned.”

He carved the lines beneath her gaze,
In marble hall and candle blaze.
The sigils twisted into place—
And stitched their mark across his face.

The final rune, he drew too wide.
The circle pulsed. The floor replied.
It opened like a thirsty lung—
And drank his breath with silent tongue.

He screamed but could not move or run.
His blood obeyed what he had done.
It rose in coils, a living ring—
And wrapped him tight like offering.

She stepped within, her voice a hymn,
And plucked a thread that hummed with sin.
“Immortal now, but never free—
You’ll flow for all eternity.”

His eyes grew red, his flesh grew thin—
His veins became the binding rim.
He wept but stayed, his thoughts a hum—
Forever part of what she’d done.

And in her lab, beneath the glass,
A fountain flows but never lasts.
Its source unseen. Its tears all red.
Its whispers chant: “Not dead… not dead.”

The tower thrummed with whispered names,
Each wall alight in crimson flames.
The glyphs had grown from floor to sky—
A spiral carved to deify.

Cassandra stood in flowing red,
A crown of veins upon her head.
Her hands outstretched, her eyes aglow—
She traced the path that few could know.

Across the land, her runes had spread,
Through bone-white fields and riverbeds.
She’d etched her marks on sacred stones—
And laced them all through ash and bones.

The circle vast, the ink was old—
But pulsed anew in scarlet gold.
She whispered words from blood-wrought tongue—
And time itself came all undone.

A forest bled. A sea stood still.
The wind turned back upon the hill.
And everywhere the lines did cross,
The price was pain, the gain was loss.

She rose above the tower’s spine,
With gravity unhinged from time.
And every drop she’d ever spilled
Returned in torrents, swift and filled.

The ghosts she’d made now danced and swirled,
A chorus from a ruptured world.
Their voices fused into a spell
That twisted Earth to match her cell.

She closed her eyes. The chant was done.
The bloodlines linked, the curse begun.
A red eclipse crossed every land—
And every heartbeat met her hand.

She did not smile. She did not weep.
Her soul was sunk in deathless deep.
And in the silence, just before…
She carved a glyph… and bled one more.

Now every vein the planet knows
Contains her name, her pulse, her prose.
And death itself has lost its sting—
For she has made the final ring.

Behind a gate of rusted thorn,
Where ivy grew like sins reborn,
She kept a plot the village feared—
A garden strange, and far too near.

The soil was black with oil and bone,
The roots too wide, the stalks full-grown.
The herbs she grew were none you’d name—
And none who touched them left the same.

The roses bled if handled wrong,
The sage would hum a burial song.
A nettle bloomed once every year—
And whispered truths no man should hear.

She wore a shawl of beetle thread,
With dried-up seeds looped round her head.
She smiled with teeth the colour green—
Like copper soaked in something mean.

Each morning she would pluck and taste,
A bloom from ground none else would face.
And every night, her teacup steamed—
Its scent of mint and something… mean.

A merchant swore she cured his gout—
Then wept blood weeks before he bowed out.
A baker’s cough was soothed with ease—
But now his lungs grow twisted leaves.

No children wandered past her hedge,
No pets returned once past the edge.
Even birds would take a loop—
To dodge her crooked garden stoop.

But still she smiled and snipped and stirred,
And spoke in tongues too slow for words.
The soil moved when she did not—
And fed her roots with all it got.

They’d whisper: “Witch.” They’d mutter: “Hag.”
Yet every time a heart would lag—
They’d send for her with trembling hand,
And sip the cup she’d long since planned.

The flowers know. The petals see.
And Grunmaw’s garden? Never free.
For every bloom beneath her touch—
Is paid in secrets, pain… and such.

The lord rode in with rings and sneers,
His voice like wine soured over years.
He laughed at dogs, ignored the poor—
And wiped his boots on Grunmaw’s door.

“I hear you brew a witch’s taste,”
He said, then grinned with silver laced.
“A little vial, perhaps, to charm—
A noble’s heart. Or do you harm?”

She bowed, but not the humble way—
Just low enough to hide the play.
She poured a cup of something pale,
And stirred it with a mushroom’s tail.

“This tea,” she said, “will calm the bile.
And give your eyes a bit more smile.”
He slurped it down with greedy speed—
And left behind a crimson bead.

He feasted next in his estate,
With bread and bird upon his plate.
But as he laughed, his lips turned blue—
And something twitched beneath his shoe.

His tongue began to swell and split,
His gums leaked gold, his teeth unfit.
His skin turned slick with shining juice—
And bloomed with boils, ripe for misuse.

He screamed, but not a soul would aid—
His guards had fled, the torches swayed.
The roast turned green. The wine turned thick.
His ring finger snapped off like wick.

By dawn, the lord was found alone—
A feast of meat upon his throne.
But no one dared to claim the spread—
For all agreed: that meat looked... fed.

Back in the bog, Grunmaw sipped slow.
Her spoon tapped thrice against her toe.
“Swine always eat,” she softly said,
“But never learn what makes the bread.”

And from that day, the whispers grew:
Of noble blood and herbal brew.
A cup once served, forever stains—
And poisons run through gilded veins.

They dragged her through the choking reeds,
Her hands still stained with herbal deeds.
The village spat, the priest gave psalms—
The moss beneath her licked her palms.

“Exile,” said the wrinkled judge,
“No stake, no rope—just swamp and sludge.”
They left her there with torn-up boots,
And walked away through roots and hoots.

She didn’t beg. She didn’t cry.
She let the frogs replace the sky.
She lay among the leeches’ song—
And waited, cold… but not for long.

The swamp was old, and deep with thought.
It knew the taste of those forgot.
It whispered not in words, but hums—
Through cattail lips and beetle drums.

The toads brought herbs she'd never grown.
The snakes curled tight around her bones.
A mushroom pulsed beneath her spine—
And fed her dreams with oozing brine.

She drank the green from stagnant pools,
She mapped the stars with lichens' rules.
And when the moon turned black and wide,
She opened up her arms—and died.

But only once, and not for good.
The bog reclaimed her flesh and hood.
She rose with breath that stung the trees,
And nails that dripped with ancient teas.

Her voice was now a brewing spell.
Her skin turned slick, her smile unwell.
A crown of roots grew round her brow—
And every leaf would bow somehow.

The swamp had blessed her, made her queen—
Of all things vile, and all things green.
No hearth, no home, no mortal plan—
Just Grunmaw now. And all she can.

She built no hearth, she lit no flame—
Her potions brewed inside her frame.
A stomach steeped in venom’s root,
With ribs that rattled herbs to fruit.

She found a vial made of bone,
And filled it with a steaming moan.
A slug dissolved in nettle wine,
And thistleworms for sharper spine.

Her lips grew cracked with tannin red,
Her breath like tea from tombs long dead.
Each burp a puff of powdered rot—
A scented curse in every clot.

She twisted roots into her veins,
To filter spite through fungal chains.
And when she sang, the swamps replied—
With humming reeds and frogs that cried.

The first brew was a bitter thing,
Distilled from pain and bogwood sting.
She held it close, a mother’s grace—
Then corked it with a warty face.

A traveler came to seek her skill,
A huntsman weak with wart-born chill.
He begged, “Please cure what makes me bile!”
She smiled and served her draught with style.

He drank. He blinked. He said, “It’s nice.”
Then barked once—twice—and croaked in ice.
His skin turned green, his hands grew webbed—
And soon the swamp had one more friend.

She placed his flask upon a shelf,
Beside three more, each once a self.
And in the mire, her story spread:
Of teas that talked, and drinks that bled.

She did not brew in iron pots.
She did not use your grandma’s knots.
She steeped her wrath in blood and gut—
And served it warm in handmade cups.

So sip with care if called to sup—
For Grunmaw’s steep is brewing up.
And every draught she pours today…
Once begged to drink their pain away.

She came in silks and powdered grace,
A mirror tucked beneath her face.
Her perfume reached the bog before
Her voice declared, “This place is poor.”

The flowers shrank, the beetles hid.
The mushrooms hissed beneath their lids.
But Grunmaw smiled, her teeth askew—
And brewed a cup of something new.

“A touch of rose,” she sweetly said,
“And tulip root from garden dead.
This tea will glow within your skin—
And make you shine from deep within.”

The beauty drank with dainty flair,
Then flounced away through mossy air.
Her heels stuck fast in sucking mud—
But she laughed off the clinging crud.

By morning light, her cheeks were flushed,
Her eyes like gems, her lips well-brushed.
But everywhere she stepped, things sighed—
The ground grew slick, the lilies died.

She danced into the village square,
And basked in every hungry stare.
But soon her skin began to gleam—
Not soft with health, but like a beam.

Her pores wept light, her teeth shone through,
Her laughter cracked in neon hue.
And when she cried, the sun turned red—
The birds fell dead, the baker fled.

Her bones glowed white beneath her dress,
Her smile peeled back in bright distress.
Her fingers wilted like bouquet—
And crumbled into ash that day.

They found her mirror cracked and green,
Reflecting moss where face had been.
The note beside it simply said: 

“Too much sun will bake the dead.”

And back within her garden walls,
Grunmaw hummed as nightshade falls.
A single petal, pressed and plucked—
From beauty bloomed, then self-destruct.

He sold his salt with flour mixed,
His scales were rigged, his coins were fixed.
His silks were moths, his spice was weed—
Yet still he thrived on want and need.

He laughed at those who lived on less,
And bought their shame with gold’s caress.
Each deal he made with silver tongue—
Each lie a thread that tightly clung.

He came to Grunmaw’s swamp one day,
With honeyed words and purse to sway.
“I hear you sell the strangest teas—
Let’s strike a trade. I pay with ease.”

She stirred her pot with crooked spoon,
And hummed a song to match his tune.
“A merchant, hmm? You like things fair?
Then taste this blend—beyond compare.”

He drank, of course, in eager slurp—
Then belched and laughed a golden burp.
“Delightful, dear! What’s in the pot?”
She grinned and said, “What you are not.”

That night his teeth began to gleam—
Too bright, too sharp, too full of steam.
His tongue grew thick, his lips went numb,
His breath like rot and copper drum.

He tried to speak, to count his coin,
But found each syllable disjoined.
Each word he spoke turned into pus—
And every vowel began to rust.

He fled his stall, he burned his wares,
But still his mouth birthed golden snares.
By dawn, he gagged upon his greed—
His voice now choked by molten seed.

They found him cold, face full of gold—
His throat a mine of melted hold.
His ledger burned beside his bed—
Its last word: “Trade.” The ink was red.

And Grunmaw sipped her evening cup,
Her breath all mint and misery’s luck.
“For every weight, there is a scale—
And lies will steep in bitter tale.”

The village dead were buried near,
Beneath the hill where skies stay clear.
A place of stone, of shade and cross—
Where grief was quiet, trimmed with moss.

But seasons turned, and something stirred,
The silence broke with root and word.
One grave grew red with mushroom bloom—
Another sprouted buds of gloom.

By summer's end, the plot was lush,
With blossoms born from rot and hush.
Petals shaped like screaming mouths,
And leaves that twitched in eastern drouths.

They bloomed atop the blacksmith's child,
The midwife's bed, the vicar mild.
And on each grave, a tag was strung—
Etched in bark with dried-up tongue.

The villagers began to weep—
But dared not dig, nor sow, nor reap.
For when they cut a petal down,
It wailed, and bled into the ground.

They begged the priest to bless the field,
But found his Bible sealed and sealed.
The garden would not let them lie—
The dead, it seemed, had more to cry.

At dusk, a figure strolled the path,
A kettle swaying in her wrath.
She plucked a bloom and gave a sniff—
Then vanished in the swamp’s cold drift.

Each flower, now, was shaped like face—
Twisted by tea and graveyard grace.
And every time a lie was told,
Another root would take its hold.

They tried to burn it, tried to pave—
But still it grew from every grave.
A warning planted deep in loam:
“Don’t steep your hate where hearts are home.”

He came with boots not worn by war,
And eyes that gleamed with tales and lore.
A satchel filled with vials and charms,
A smile tucked beneath his arms.

“I mean no harm,” the young man said,
And bowed his head where flowers bled.
He praised her herbs, her art, her way—
And stayed for tea at close of day.

He called her wise, he called her queen.
He said, “You’re not the hag they mean.”
She chuckled low and poured his brew,
And offered him a rosebud too.

They talked of toads, of stars, of death,
Of how a lie can shape one’s breath.
He listened well, he laughed on cue—
And eyed the shelf marked “Witch’s Rue.”

When Grunmaw dozed beside the fire,
He slipped with fingers thin as wire.
He took a scroll, a charm, a key—
And left without a parting plea.

But halfway down the mushroom path,
His stomach churned with growing wrath.
His legs gave out, his hands felt strange—
His tongue forgot its native range.

He crawled back weeping, tried to shout—
But petals bloomed along his mouth.
His skin turned bark, his bones took root—
His fingers sprouted thorn and shoot.

By dawn, a rose had claimed his frame—
Its thorns still whispered out his name.
It bloomed beneath her window’s face,
A warning, dressed in red and grace.

She trimmed the leaves, then sipped her tea.
“Such pretty boys, they bloom for me.
But if you steal what’s freely shown…
You’ll feed the flowers all alone.”

A fever swept through Mirefen,
A cough of moss, a choking fen.
The healers died, the roots turned black,
The sky hung low with spore and crack.

The village elders held a moot—
And found their cures had all gone mute.
No tea would soothe, no prayer would stick.
Each breath grew short, each child sick.

They lit the path to swamp and shade,
With offerings in hands that prayed.
And Grunmaw stood before her door,
Still steeping spite from days of yore.

She watched them beg, all thin and gray,
The same who threw her life away.
Yet still she brewed with steady grace—
No hatred shown upon her face.

“A tea for strength,” she softly said,
“A poultice brewed from witchwood bread.
But drink it slow and heed the terms—
Lest you invite more than the worms.”

They drank. They cheered. The children smiled.
The coughing ceased, the swamp beguiled.
But days went on, and something grew—
Beneath their skin, a fungal hue.

They dreamed of spores, of roots and dust,
Their memories wrapped in velvet crust.
And when they lied, their tongues turned green—
Their eyes bloomed wide with forest sheen.

One child coughed and out flew seeds.
A mayor’s lies grew sprouting weeds.
They could not harm, nor cheat, nor boast—
Their thoughts now fed the garden ghost.

In time, they came with gifts and praise,
To crown her Queen of Fungus Days.
She laughed and sipped her morning grime—
Then crowned herself in lichened time.

“I cured you true,” she told the mass,
“But every sip returns at last.
You cast me out with fire and frown—
Now wear my gift: the fungus crown.”

She brewed by moon, she brewed by moan,
A cauldron placed on toadstone throne.
The swamp grew still, the wind held breath—
Her steeping now was stitched with death.

She’d gathered roots from hanging trees,
A wasp’s last sting, a drowned man’s pleas.
A hair from those who’d kissed her lies—
A pinch of rust from sharpened sighs.

She poured the brew into a bowl,
Carved from a king’s abandoned soul.
Its steam rose slow, its scent was sweet—
Like sugared rot and honeyed meat.

Then came the men in armour red,
With spears and threats and royal thread.
“The king demands your final spell,”
They said, not knowing where they fell.

She served them each a steaming draft,
Then watched them drink—and watched them laugh.
“Delicious, witch,” they mocked with glee—
Then blinked and fell upon their knees.

Their mouths grew wide with crawling moss,
Their eyes turned glass, their bones grew cross.
Their hearts beat once, then twice, then stopped—
And from their skin, the swamp-life popped.

Each knight became a clustered bloom,
A garden born from armored tomb.
Their shields were mushrooms, bright and tall—
Their spears now reeds, their lungs a sprawl.

By dawn the forest claimed the space,
No sign of camp, no metal trace.
Just roots that whispered in her tongue—
Of kings undone and bards unsung.

She held the bowl, now pale and bare,
And poured the rest into the air.
“One final cup,” she softly hissed,
“And not a soul who won’t be missed.”

Now every breeze that stirs the fen
Carries the breath of poisoned men.
And Grunmaw sits where nothing dies—
Still steeping truths, and boiling lies.

In rows of gold beneath the sun,
He toiled where the fields begun,
A man of earth, with hands like stone,
Who sowed the seeds and prayed alone.

His barn was lean, his faith was fat,
He spoke in tongues to soil and thatch.
They called him mad, with hollow scorn—
A scarecrow soul, by silence worn.

“Repent,” he’d cry from weathered porch,
“A blight shall come, a famine torch!
Your sins will rot this sacred land,
Unless you kneel with bloody hands.”

They laughed and tipped their liquor jugs,
While he poured salt in furrowed ruts.
He carved a cross of tangled vine,
And prayed 'til dusk for cleansing signs.

He heard the whispers in the wheat,
Of ghostly roots and cursed deceit.
He saw the crows with ember eyes,
And dreamt of fields that bled the skies.

Each morning came with less to reap—
The stalks were pale, the earth too deep.
He begged the rain, he begged the Lord,
But found no mercy, only swords.

The church refused his warnings dire,
They mocked his brimstone, stoked the fire.
A prophet lost to plague and heat,
They named him beast, they called him cheat.

With pitchforks drawn and sermons screamed,
They stormed his land like haunted dreams.
And still he knelt, arms raised in dust,
“Spare them, Lord, though they betray my trust.”

But faith, like crops, can twist and die—
And justice baked beneath the sky.
They bound him to a wooden throne,
Where corn and crows would pick his bones.

And as he burned beneath God’s light,
He cursed the soil, the day, the night.
“The harvest comes, and I shall rise—
To reap your sins beneath black skies.”

The sun beat down with ruthless glare,
The fields lay cracked, the branches bare.
No wind would stir, no rain would fall—
The drought had come to damn them all.

The townsfolk’s eyes grew sharp with spite,
Their hunger bred a need to fight.
They blamed the one whose crops were dead,
And claimed he called the curse instead.

“He chants at dusk with demon tongue,
And drinks from wells where snakes have sprung.
His fields are graveyards for our kin—
He must be purged to cleanse our sin.”

They came in droves, a wrathful swarm,
With pitchforks clenched and tempers warm.
They found him praying in his field,
And tore his psalms from lips unsealed.

“False prophet! Witch!” they screamed with glee,
As Ezekiel dropped to one knee.
He looked to skies that did not speak,
And felt the fire beneath his feet.

They dragged him where the crows took perch,
And bound his limbs with rope and birch.
They nailed him to a makeshift cross,
And left him there to burn and rot.

The wind returned to fan the blaze,
And cinders danced in hellish haze.
But as he burned, he did not scream—
He whispered low through smoke and steam:

“You fed the blight with wicked grain,
Now reap the yield of curse and flame.
Let every root recall this day—
I’ll rise again where guilt shall lay.”

The crows descended, black as sin,
They pecked his eyes and tore his skin.
His blood soaked deep beneath the wheat,
A sacrament beneath their feet.

And as the mob turned back to town,
A shadow spread from scorched, dead ground.
The corn stood still, the scarecrows grinned—
And far below, the roots began to spin.

Beneath the ash of burning seed,
Where blood had soaked and bone did bleed,
The land grew still, yet not at peace—
It pulsed with something dark, deceased.

The roots reached down with greedy thirst,
To drink the curse, to claim the worst.
And deep below where death had laid,
The prophet’s soul began to braid.

The worms curled back in silent dread,
The crows flew wide from what lay dead.
For in the dirt, a whisper stirred—
Not speech, but something older, slurred.

The rain returned in midnight screams,
It fell like nails in fractured streams.
And from the cracks in sodden clay,
A hand of rot began to sway.

The cross had burned, its wood long black,
Yet vines still curled where limbs once cracked.
And from that post, through soil and thorn,
There rose the shell of Ezekiel Thorn.

His ribs were bark, his veins were twine,
His chest glowed faint with embered spine.
His eyes no longer sought the skies—
They blazed with judgment, old and wise.

He bore no tomb, no cross of grace,
No priest would mark his resting place.
For he was not returned by love—
But by the wrath of dirt above.

The scarecrows bowed as he walked by,
Their button eyes turned to the sky.
The wind grew sharp, the air turned cold—
The crops grew strong, but black with mold.

His voice was wind through withered leaves,
A rasp that echoed through the sheaves:
“Where sin is sown, I rise once more—
To reap what cowards dare ignore.”

So now, at dusk, when shadows bleed,
The soil hums with ghostly seed.
And something stirs beneath the rows—
A name the dead and harvest know.

A storm crept in without a sound,
Its teeth in clouds, its voice unbound.
A farmer knelt with poisoned grain,
And fed the earth his greed and shame.

He’d sold his soil to richest hands,
Let poison run through fallow lands.
With silver seeds and rusted plow,
He carved his profit from the now.

He did not hear the cornrows hiss,
Nor see the blackened stalks twist.
But from the gloom a figure stepped—
With glowing eyes and silence kept.

No word was said, no plea was made,
The wind went still, the daylight swayed.
The farmer turned—too late to run—
And met the scythe beneath no sun.

It sang through air with shrieking rust,
A blade born not of steel, but trust—
Now turned to hate, now turned to bone,
A crescent forged where pain had grown.

The scythe bit deep through flesh and sin,
It split the soul, not just the skin.
And vines reached up from thirsty loam,
To drag the sinner’s body home.

The crows descended in a cloud,
A feast of wings, a funeral shroud.
And when they left, not much remained—
Just scattered teeth and bloody grain.

Ezekiel stood, the scythe in hand,
His gaze as wide as broken land.
The field around him bloomed with rot,
A graveyard sown in every plot.

He vanished as the thunder fell,
His breath a wheeze from some far hell.
And whispered low through chaff and moan:
“This land is mine. You reap alone.”

The wind began to whisper names,
Through broken barns and windowpanes.
The townsfolk swore they heard a laugh
That wheezed like rust through winter chaff.

The scarecrows turned with subtle grace,
Their stitched-on eyes in wrongened place.
No longer stuffed with straw and rags—
But dread and bones inside the bags.

Each dusk, a silence took the town,
As if the sky itself knelt down.
The children cried when crows took flight,
And dogs grew mad at dead of night.

A preacher drank more than he prayed,
And muttered how the Lord had strayed.
He found a crow perched on his sill—
Its gaze too knowing, far too still.

A widow’s garden bloomed with rot,
Though sun and rain gave all they’d got.
She wept as corn grew black and wild,
Each stalk shaped like a writhing child.

The mayor’s fields grew overnight,
But bore no fruit, just teeth and blight.
He heard the flapping in his dreams,
And woke with straw caught in his seams.

A scarecrow moved beneath the moon—
It changed its pose, then vanished soon.
And on its post were bloodied rips,
As if it smiled with stitched-up lips.

No man would till beyond the fence,
No woman dared her past offence.
The town began to leave out meat—
And whispered prayers to fields and wheat.

But nothing stopped the growing fear—
The sense that something dark drew near.
The crows would gather, line the wires,
Their eyes like coals, their wings like pyres.

And carved in bark or old barn door,
Were words not seen in years before:
“You sowed this wrong. You fed the land.
Now comes the Scythe. Now comes the hand.”

The soil no longer bore the same—
It pulsed with grief, it whispered blame.
The corn grew tall with twisted stalk,
Each leaf a blade, each ear a mock.

The flowers bloomed with mouths and teeth,
The roots would clutch at things beneath.
A child went missing near the trees—
They only found her doll and knees.

A scarecrow danced when no wind blew,
Its limbs too loose, its grin too true.
It bowed to none but moonlight’s gaze,
And vanished when the rooster brayed.

Ezekiel watched from distant fields,
His presence marked by crops that kneeled.
The soil, it breathed beneath his tread,
Alive, aware, and newly fed.

He whispered once into a seed—
It grew to choke a man with speed.
He touched a tree, and bark turned black,
Its branches groaned and bent with cracks.

A harvest feast turned grim and strange,
With bread like flesh and wine deranged.
The guests all choked on kernels raw—
Each one a tooth inside the jaw.

No rite could cleanse, no prayer could bind,
The fear that bloomed in root and rind.
The church's garden split with cries,
And thorned-up vines began to rise.

Even the crows grew strange and pale,
Their feathers grey, their voices frail.
They perched on roofs with heads askew,
And spoke in tongues the preacher knew.

So what now grows beneath the sun
Is not for beast, nor man to shun.
The harvest calls not wheat, but wail—
And Ezekiel walks the furrowed vale.

The bulldozers came with iron pride,
To raze the fields the crows once eyed.
The land was bought with silent bribes,
And paved for profit, stripped of tribes.

They laughed at tales of haunted ground,
Dismissed the stories that went 'round.
Their drills bit deep into the clay,
And woke what should have stayed away.

The first to fall was just a man,
Who found his boots had grown with hands.
The soil split wide and drank his screams,
And spat back worms with glassy gleam.

The others thought it just a fluke—
Until the tractors sprouted roots.
The wheels spun thorns, the engines bled,
And crows rained down with eyes of red.

A crane collapsed like folding wings,
Its operator pulled by strings.
A cornfield rose where none had been,
Its stalks alive with teeth and grin.

One begged for help, hands raw with cuts,
But vines had filled his lungs with dust.
A foreman tried to flee the line—
But followed by a walking pine.

Ezekiel rose in full, immense—
His frame of bark, his heart intense.
The Reaper’s Scythe swung in the haze,
A shadow cleaving through the blaze.

The sky turned black, the land turned red,
Each scream a hymn, each corpse a thread.
He whispered not a word or plea—
Just let the land do as it pleased.

And when it passed, the field was still—
But crops now grew with stranger will.
No one would buy that cursed estate—
For ghosts had closed the real estate.

The fires dimmed, the blood ran cold,
And Ezekiel stood in ash and mold.
The scythe hung low, its hunger spent,
Yet still he moved where shadows bent.

He walked through rows of broken green,
Where silence spoke of what had been.
The earth no longer cried for him—
It only listened, hollow-limbed.

No screams remained to echo back,
Just rustling leaves and sky gone black.
He stared at fields he'd once called home,
Now graveyards choked with root and bone.

A memory passed like drifting smoke—
A hymn once sung, a vow once spoke.
The sunlit prayer of simpler days
Now lost beneath the soil’s haze.

He knelt beside a dried-up creek,
Its water gone, its bed too bleak.
There, in the mud, his face he saw—
Not man, nor ghost, just living flaw.

His hands were claws of thorn and bark,
His heart a coal without a spark.
His name no longer fit the sound
Of what now stalked this cursed ground.

The crows returned, but did not cry.
They circled slow, then passed him by.
For even they could sense the void
That sorrow, not revenge, employed.

A whisper came from roots below,
A voice he once had called his own.
It asked if vengeance fed his soul—
Or left behind a deeper hole.

He rose in silence, scythe in hand,
Not as a man, but curse of land.
No tears to weep, no faith to bend—
Just one more harvest to attend.

They came at dawn with flame and hymn,
With crosses high and torches grim.
Their boots sank deep in cursed rows,
Where nothing good or holy grows.

The preacher held a rusted blade,
And whispered psalms with fingers flayed.
His voice cracked loud through bitter smoke—
"Today, the scarecrow's curse is broke!"

The corn caught fire with howling screams,
Each stalk alive with buried dreams.
The smoke turned black, the sky turned red—
The fields themselves began to dread.

A scream arose not made by man,
A groan that shook the churchyard land.
And from the fire, wrapped in blight,
Ezekiel strode with eyes alight.

His limbs were flame, his ribs aglow,
The vines around him writhed and froze.
Yet still he moved through ash and coal,
A creature carved from burning soul.

The reapers fell with blistered skin,
The fire turned and leapt within.
A farmer burst like overripe fruit,
As roots reached up to claim his boots.

The preacher wept but swung his knife,
And plunged it deep with all his might.
It found its mark—a wound so old,
But fire met fire, cold against cold.

Ezekiel staggered, cracked in bone,
His chest a furnace overthrown.
He fell, then vanished in the smoke—
As if the land itself had spoke.

The blaze died fast, the fields grew still,
The sun returned across the hill.
They thought him gone, returned to dust—
But knew no flame could cleanse such rust.

For deep below in embered dark,
A heartbeat echoed, slow and stark.
The field still whispered through the yield:
“You cannot kill what roots the field.”

The fire cooled, the soil slept,
But still the land its secrets kept.
The fields regrew with eerie speed—
Fed not by sun, but by the deed.

The town rebuilt in cautious fear,
Their sermons hushed, their fences near.
No farmer sowed beyond the line,
Where roots would pulse and crows would dine.

Yet every fall, when skies turned grey,
And leaves like ashes blew away,
They’d hear a laugh upon the breeze—
A hollow wheeze that bent the trees.

The children learned to hold their breath,
When passing near the Scarecrow’s death.
They swore his post would reappear—
With footprints scorched and bent with fear.

Some say he walks when night is still,
Through furrows deep on distant hill.
Some claim they saw the Reaper’s light—
A fire burning out of sight.

And those who lie, and cheat, and steal,
Find corn within their home-cooked meal.
The kernels twitch, the stalks invade—
Their lungs become the Scarecrow’s blade.

A mayor choked on vines one night.
A preacher found his sermon trite.
A banker fled, but left behind
His teeth arranged in threshing lines.

You can’t escape what you forget—
The land remembers every debt.
Its harvest grows with every wrong,
A hymn to him—a reaping song.

So plant your truths and till with care,
Speak kindly to the open air.
For every field has eyes unseen…
And he still waits where crops grow mean.

The crowd was sweat, the floor was spit,
The lights above a dying glint.
The air was thick with beer and roar—
The underground was keeping score.

He walked the aisle with no theme song,
Just boots that stomped a warhead’s song.
A mask of red, a gaze like fire—
And arms that cracked the ring's old wire.

No one had seen a man so wide,
With murder braided in his stride.
They called him “Magnus” on the sheet—
The canvas knew it meant defeat.

His foe, a vet, with scarred-up pride,
Stood smirking on the other side.
He winked and mouthed, “Go soft, kiddo,”
Then hit the ropes to start the show.

The bell was dull, its echo flat.
Magnus did not dance or chat.
He took the vet down in one lock—
And pinned him hard with bone-crunch shock.

The crowd went wild, the ref looked stunned—
But something else had just begun.
The lights went low, the air grew tight,
The ring beneath them pulsed with blight.

The vet still lay, his chest unmoved.
His limbs were bent, his breath removed.
The crowd went quiet. Blood had spilled—
And Magnus only smiled, fulfilled.

He ripped the canvas from the mat,
Where death still steamed and muscle spat.
And stitched his mask with thread so red—
A piece of victory from the dead.

From that night on, each match he won
Felt colder than the one begun.
He left the ring with pride and pain—
And something whispering his name.

The old arena moaned at night,
Its rafters creaked in ghostly fright.
No matches ran, no crowd would cheer—
Just echoes fed by old career.

Magnus walked its dust-caked floor,
With rusted lock and bolted door.
A place where legends used to rise—
Now ruled by rats and broken ties.

He followed whispers down below,
Beneath the boards, past pipes and woe.
The locker rooms were sealed with grime,
But something pulsed beyond all time.

A grate behind the boiler hissed,
Its air was damp, like serpent kiss.
He pried it loose with knuckle crack,
And slipped into the crawling black.

A voice there called in promo speak—
Its every line both proud and bleak.
It promised fame, a streak unbroken,
A crown of pain, a mask, a token.

"Each pinfall steals what they won't miss—
Their pride, their soul, their final bliss.
Win clean, win fast, and wear the red—
The mat will take what's left unsaid."

He found the ring’s forgotten heart,
A circle carved in runes and art.
A belt of bone, a mask of meat—
And chains of tape where time repeats.

He knelt, and placed his palm in flame—
It burned, then whispered out his name.
A contract signed in breath and sweat,
His legend made, his mercy met.

He rose anew with crimson grin,
The ring above began to spin.
And when he left that pit of sin—
The world had just begun to win.

The crowd returned, the lights burned bright,
But Magnus wrestled different nights.
His step was thunder, slow and sure,
Each match a sermon, fierce and pure.

He never spoke before the bell,
But when it rang, the ring knew hell.
Opponents strained with all they had—
He cracked them clean and made it bad.

The mask now clung, a second skin,
Its jawline carved with words of sin.
His finisher—a brutal twist—
Left arms disjointed, ribs dismissed.

He called it Legacy, and laughed
As limbs went numb and souls detached.
Three seconds flat, he’d pin them down—
And something else would claim the crown.

The first to fall forgot his name,
And wandered backstage, whispering shame.
The second swore he’d never fought,
Though footage showed each kick he caught.

They didn’t bruise—they didn’t bleed—
But eyes went glassy, smiles went freed.
They stood like statues in the hall,
Rewatching promos on the wall.

Each time he won, the mat would twitch,
As if beneath it stirred an itch.
A hunger fed by crowd’s acclaim—
And all who dared to share the frame.

Magnus grinned with bloodstained teeth,
And flexed his arms in victory’s wreath.
The crowd would cheer, the lights would flare—
And no one asked what wasn’t there.

Just wins and belts and rising fame,
And victims with no sense of name.
For what he took, they’d never track—
A spotlight swallowed, never back.

The arena throbbed with neon fire,
Crowds howled like wolves in branded choir.
A pay-per-view with lights so grand—
The night the devil took the brand.

Magnus stood in centre stage,
A juggernaut of ageless rage.
His mask, now cracked in lightning lines,
Seemed stitched from screams and vinyl spines.

His rival spoke before the fight—
A golden boy, all flash and light.
He pointed straight at Magnus' chest,
And cried, “This monster failed the test!”

“The mask you wear drinks more than sweat—
You wrestle ghosts and call it debt!”
He held a mic like holy cross—
But crowd just cheered, still blind to loss.

The bell rang loud. The air went dry.
The titan roared a lullaby.
The mat began to pulse and twitch—
The golden boy screamed, “This ain’t a glitch!”

They traded blows—then something changed.
The ring ropes hissed, the lights deranged.
And when Magnus hit his final move,
The mat beneath began to groove.

It split with seams like cracking lips,
Revealing void with grasping grips.
The crowd went wild at special effects—
Not knowing real from breaking necks.

He pinned the boy—one, two, three—
And down they went, beneath the scree.
No trapdoor trick, no clever spring—
Just open jaws inside the ring.

The cameras cut. The crowd still stood.
The bell rang once. The air smelled wood.
And in the silence, no one spoke—
Just static screams through commentator’s cloak.

The arena throbbed with neon fire,
Crowds howled like wolves in branded choir.
A pay-per-view with lights so grand—
The night the devil took the brand.

Magnus stood in centre stage,
A juggernaut of ageless rage.
His mask, now cracked in lightning lines,
Seemed stitched from screams and vinyl spines.

His rival spoke before the fight—
A golden boy, all flash and light.
He pointed straight at Magnus' chest,
And cried, “This monster failed the test!”

“The mask you wear drinks more than sweat—
You wrestle ghosts and call it debt!”
He held a mic like holy cross—
But crowd just cheered, still blind to loss.

The bell rang loud. The air went dry.
The titan roared a lullaby.
The mat began to pulse and twitch—
The golden boy screamed, “This ain’t a glitch!”

They traded blows—then something changed.
The ring ropes hissed, the lights deranged.
And when Magnus hit his final move,
The mat beneath began to groove.

It split with seams like cracking lips,
Revealing void with grasping grips.
The crowd went wild at special effects—
Not knowing real from breaking necks.

He pinned the boy—one, two, three—
And down they went, beneath the scree.
No trapdoor trick, no clever spring—
Just open jaws inside the ring.

The cameras cut. The crowd still stood.
The bell rang once. The air smelled wood.
And in the silence, no one spoke—
Just static screams through commentator’s cloak.

The titan stood beneath the light,
His mask aglow, his shoulders tight.
No match was booked, no bell had rung—
Yet still the crowd fell mute, unsung.

He raised a mic from ropes of black,
Its cord like veins across his back.
Then spoke with tones of velvet grime—
Each word a curse, each pause a crime.

“No one's safe between these ropes,
Your fame’s a lie, your fans are dopes.
You play immortal, weak and small—
But when I talk... you feel the fall.”

His voice was gravel wrapped in flame,
His cadence slow, but never tame.
The promo slithered through the air,
And wrapped itself in every stare.

The wrestlers watching dropped their smiles,
Their memories twisting into files.
They saw themselves in endless loops—
Losing to him in countless swoops.

A commentator choked mid-line,
Replaying matches not yet timed.
A rookie screamed, “I tapped! I tapped!”
Though no one knew he'd ever clapped.

Each line he dropped etched through the mind—
Not hype, but chains that slowly bind.
“I don’t need belts,” he snarled and sneered,
“I’ve got your fears, your screams, your years.”

The mic sparked out. The lights went black.
But still his voice slid down their backs.
And in their dreams, it plays on loop—
The cursed man's endless, bleeding shoot.

The posters flapped in midnight wind,
A church gym turned to ring of sin.
The bleachers held a dozen fans,
All clutching signs with shaky hands.

Five wrestlers trained in faded gear,
Hyped by hope, and chased by fear.
An indie card, a charity run—
A harmless night… until he came on.

His name was not upon the list,
Yet still the shadows formed a mist.
The curtain twitched, the bell rang once—
And all the air turned red and blunt.

Magnus stepped in, no cue, no call,
Just boots that crushed the padded wall.
The canvas screamed beneath his tread,
The lights above all flickered dead.

The first to charge went down in two,
His spine bent wrong, his color blue.
The second vanished in the slam—
A void-shaped mouth beneath him ran.

The third one begged, "It's just a show!"
But ropes had turned to tongues below.
They dragged him under, screaming loud—
Then came applause from stunned, mute crowd.

The fourth went limp from cursed clothesline,
His face erased, no form, no spine.
The fifth? He smiled, embraced the fear—
And simply walked into the smear.

The crowd began to chant his name—
Not out of love, but plague and shame.
The bleachers groaned beneath the weight
Of fans possessed by Magnus’ fate.

The camera feeds all failed to roll.
The exits locked without control.
And on that night, five names were lost—
To vanity and ego’s cost.

They said it was just costume gear,
A wrestler’s flair, a face of fear.
But old men spoke in choked-up tones—
Of blood-soaked mats and whispering bones.

A commentator, long retired,
With voice like ash and lungs expired,
Described a match in '83—
Where time had looped and begged to flee.

A rookie fell mid-figure four,
And vanished through the ring’s old floor.
When Magnus knelt to lift his prey,
He wore a mask not made that day.

It wasn’t stitched by mortal hand,
But formed from something under sand.
A canvas scrap with runes aglow—
That whispered wins and breathed below.

Each match he fought, the mask grew tight,
Its surface cracked with every fight.
But in the breaks, mouths tried to bloom—
And licked the air inside the room.

The belt he wore held more than gold,
It weighed with echoes, sweat, and mold.
Some said it hummed, some said it wept—
A trophy born where gods had slept.

For every soul he pinned and stole
Was fed into the belt’s black hole.
The mask would eat, the strap would bind—
Until no face remained behind.

He wasn't man, nor ghost, nor shade—
But memory in suede and blade.
A relic cursed by endless cheers,
With jagged teeth for every year.

So if you see that crimson grin—
Don’t fight the match you cannot win.
Just bow and crawl outside the ropes…
And leave your pride to ghosts and hopes.

They built the ring on hallowed ground,
With salt and ash all laid around.
The ropes were soaked in sacred oil,
The mat hand-stitched in blessed toil.

Two challengers, a tag-team pact,
Had faced the void and fought it back.
One wore a cross of silver threads,
The other spoke to wrestling’s dead.

The crowd was hushed, the lights were dim,
They’d sold no merch, played no theme hymn.
This wasn’t sport—it was a rite—
To drag a demon into light.

The bell rang once, then stopped mid-tone.
A second rang from depths unknown.
And there he came with silent tread—
The Crimson Canvas, born of dread.

The first to strike met ropes alive—
They wrapped and hissed like nested hives.
The second launched from top turnbuckle—
But hit a wall of screams and knuckles.

The tag was made with shaking hand,
The crowd began to leave the stands.
One slipped behind, with belt in grip—
While one knelt low to bite and rip.

The mask was grabbed, its seams undone—
It writhed like skin beneath the sun.
And for a blink, the crowd saw through—
A face made up of me and you.

A thousand eyes, a thousand sins,
All cheering what they once called wins.
The mask was rage, regret, and fame—
A stitched-up soul that knew your name.

The ring collapsed beneath the fight,
The night consumed the ring of light.
And when the dust had cleared the scene—
Just one remained. Eyes cracked. Unclean.

The ring was gone, the ropes unstrung,
But still the crowd swore matches run.
They claimed they heard a distant bell—
From places where no fighters dwell.

Magnus was lost, or so they said,
Yet posters bled his name in red.
A belt appeared in broken glass—
Its leather stitched from screams long passed.

A rookie dreamed of crimson light,
And woke mid-ring in pale moonlight.
No crowd, no ref, just canvas torn—
And ropes that twitched like veins reborn.

They say the mask now hunts through fame,
And any soul who chants his name.
For every fan who plays immortal—
May find themselves beneath his portal.

One house show ran though none were booked,
The cameras blinked, the lights unhooked.
And in the silence, he appeared—
With grinning mask the ring once feared.

He speaks in promos from the grave,
And sells regret to those who crave.
A hero’s arc, a villain’s line—
All etched within his stitched design.

The mat will bleed when pride is loud.
The ring will creak when fame draws crowd.
And every chant, and every pose—
Just plants a seed where horror grows.

He is the myth that pins belief,
The chokehold built of fan and grief.
He wears no crown, no throne, no fate—
Just endless matches. Endless hate.

So light the lights, and toll the bell,
Let one more mortal dance through hell.
The champ is here—he’s back, he’s grinned—
The show must end. Begin… begin.