Mik Fjeld Poet Narrative

Where My Dead Body Rots

Child, child
Listen to me
Where the wolves were about
Near the screeching a wild hog’s snout
Never enter the arch where the vultures scout

For the darkest of tales come true in the woods
Of a devil; a demon drinking unicorn blood

Child, child
Listen to me
Where the flowers do not sprout
And voices scream and shout
Never enter the arch where the rats go about

For the darkest of tales come true in the woods
Of a trader; a killer drawing first drops of blood

Child, child
Listen to me
Where the dead trees leer
And the people disappear
Never enter the arch where the gargoyles cheer

For the darkest of tales come true in the woods
Of a body; a corpse rotting for good

Child, child
This is a message from me
Here where the wolves were about
Near the screeching a wild hog’s snout
Where the flowers do not sprout
And voices scream and shout
Where the dead trees leer
And the people disappear
A devil; a demon
A trader; a killer
A body; a corpse
For the darkest of tales come true, yes, lots
Never enter the arch where my dead body rots

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