Blasted fury, waking sleep,
It’s maker cannot stand
But in the furnace of its hell
Will all but not command
Of minstrel’s house the luscious speak
They know not lies within
Yet wanting to continue forth
They blindly rushed on in
In muted tones, in deafened words,
With every waking breath
They screamed to open up the grave
And free themselves from death
“Look there!” They stopped and gazed in front
A chance lay just ahead
They grasped in hopes to leave the crypt
But stayed departed’s guests.
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Marty Reep 