The Shroud of Mother Marrow
Sweet Mother Marrow flies
in through the pane,
With dust made of shadows
and liquid of bane.
She gives you a gown that is
woven from spite,
And slippers of glass that
pinch extra tight.
She smiles with a grin full of
needles and pins,
And laughs in the dark when
the nightmare begins.
Her magic wand splinters
and curdles the milk,
As she wraps up your
dreams in a shroud of black
silk.
So cover your ears when she
hums her sweet chime,
For this godmother loves to
run out of your time.
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