Black turns the heathland beyond the yonder, Where the sun shines grey and daemons wonder, Tree blossoms never fall, Because they never grew at all, And I, in this world, Have been left alone to ponder,

And so I walked for rest I craved, When I stumbled upon a dimly lit cave,

The cauldron boiled in that place, Where I dined with the man without a face, His hands moved with morbid grace, As he offered up my last taste,

“You are all but insects, I care not for you, I feel no respect, Thoughts are few,

I am here when you need me though joy I bring none, For joy will not matter once you are gone.”

With that I was ready for my gift of sleep, And what he did next was so calm and neat, A hug he offered, lifeless but strong, Within a few moments nothing was wrong.