The Mold creeps
Beyond the happy chimney tops
Into forsaken cabin’s corners
Out of rotting rickety cupboards
From decaying trees and logs
Out of boundless time and ancient empires
Beyond the roaming woodlands
Down to the dark depths of depression
Underneath the lowest branches
Beside lethal mires
Into dripping caverns
The Mold creeps
Past blinding darkness
Into the criminal’s damp den and
Out to the bog’s vapors
To torture the weary maiden in her grief
Out of heartache, black branches, and seclusion,
In monster’s breath
In bat’s wings
In the muteness of terror
In black, consuming, churning, shrieking mists
Upon the root which trips the frantic fleeing fugitive
The Mold creeps
Beneath the forest floor
From rat holes, root holes, wet holes
Out of muted malevolent meadows
From the beginning it crawls, eats, destroys
From everywhere and no where
From dead wizard’s beards
From a drowned dryad’s watery hair
From her sodden, still, sacred, white face
From the pool surrounding her in death
To the dark garden enveloping the graveyard
The Mold creeps
Out of the murderer’s den
Out of a man’s maddened mind
Out of the murderer’s darkened soul and
Into all quiet places
To all things dead and dying
The creeping Mold, it eats.