There stands a church upon a hill

  Where Hallowed ground has fallen ill

  The Chapel House sits silently in the evening chill

  The forested hillock petrified, forever statue-still

  Naked time-blacked timber stands

  Where Time’s indifferent has shorn;

  Empty windows like sightless eyes overseeing blasted lowlands

  This deathless steeple sinks into the soil whence it was borne

  Like a great beast’s ribs, fractured and frayed

  The pews all splintered, wood decayed,

  The altar’s silver trim is grayed

  This holy house a warden against an accursed

  And restless grave

  Behind this church’s corpse, a tree

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  Stands bare, and stands there solitary

  And yet beyond, there lies a clearing

  Through the woods, and a maiden can be heard keening

  Through the clearing runs a pass

  A wrought iron gate there does decry

  The potter’s field where sleepless, eternal,

  Eyeless terrors lie

  A visceral sky beset with red wine clouds

  That bruise into a purplish pink

  Apollo retires, descending sable the world surrounds

  The waning sun below horizon sinks

  Here we meet, see them at a glance,

  Two young lovers waltz abreast, and how they dance!

  Venturing on an evening stroll, but far from home,

  Seeking, well of course what young lovers see,

  To be alone

  Giggling through the chapel these young lovers pass

  This strapping lad and charming lass

  Before the gothic gate they stand

  They venture in, clasping hand in hand

  Past the stillness, through the gate,

  Farther into the twilit field

  The gate behind them closes in

  Latch and key, locked and sealed

  The lass recites, and the lad he does confess

  And how they sing, embrace, kiss, and caress

  A midden sea of headstones is their only pall

  Sprawled upon a gentle grassy cairn

  A baleful and full moonrise

  Hypnotized by each other’s eyes

  And cradled in each other’s arms

  Their muffled moans, they sigh and sing,

  So that they cannot see the things

  Gangrenous wastrel arms upreach from quiet earth

  And seize, defile and wrench the lovers into their deathless curse

  Warlock souls for centuries deceased,

  Hear their cries, they cry!

  Cry out for living hearts on which to feast!

  Clawed and hounded, these hardly more than children

  Torn and ripped and rent asunder

  Their blood drank up by fleshless jaws

  And spirits kept as horrific plunder

  The moon is wane, and slow descends

  But for the lovers, the night shall never end

  Their cries, now ghastly howls

  You can hear them calling still

  Upon this plot upon a hill, where Hallowed ground has fallen ill