I awoke to find myself writing - my Body had started to move on its own and my Brain waking up before my Eyes opened - by the Time that I realised that I was awake, I had written four Lines of some sort of Poem - which was strange for many Reasons, the Content of the Poem aside - I don’t think I’ve ever written a Poem before this Moment - yet even as the Realisation of my own Conciousness made me aware of the Light slanting through the trees -
I continued to write - I was not writing on Paper - or on my Hand - or on a Wall even -
I was writing my Poem in Dirt - earthy Soil dampened by what I assumed at first was Rain - but when I lifted - my Hands from the ground, they were dripping a deep - sickening Crimson -
and when my Eyes rose - I saw the horrors of what had occurred during my Dawnsleep -
Piles of Birds - deceased - their Legs twisted and stiff - their Feathers soaked to the Bone -
laying close to the Pond -
which seemed more dirty with Grime and Pondscum than I remembered -
and my late Mother’s beloved Gnomes -
turned to Dust and Variations of bluegreenredyellow glass in -the flowerbeds - uprooted -
mangled and utterly destroyed as if by some Nightcreature -
a Dog loose from its backyard -
or a Fox stirring up Trouble - but what sort of Animal has the Ability - the Desire -the Thought to drown another - for sport -
I must make Something clear - so that Others will understand my Plight -
this first occurred three Days ago - after which I of course hosed down the Garden -
destroying the odd words in - the Dirt - disposing of what was disposable -
I have woken to the same - three Mornings now - the old words I had written - written once more -and continued with more - then more - waking to Rot - and Decay -
and the flowing of animalistic Blood -
the twilight Ritual of Birthdeath -
I did visit the Library to look for a Poem or Song - or Book that contains these Words - but the only Thing I could find - that was even somewhat similar is a Poem by Robert Frost -
titled ‘Mending Wall’ - and the first line of the poem -
SOMETHING THERE IS THAT DOESN’T LOVE A WALL -
I fear alerting anyone else to this - surely I would be blamed -
and I lie awake in Wonder and Horror - am I truly to blame -
because I’ve been doing this killing - uprooting - drowning - myself -
or because of what I did in the Forest amidst that -
odd circular Rockmound -
a Mass of greyblack Mushrooms and little Sprigs of Grass -
I am falling to Sleep as I write this Post - please share your Thoughts -
Warnings - Guidance - and Below - the Poem -
Something there is that doesn’t love a Garden -
that uproots flowering Tulips, and blows them apart like tiny Heads - bloody -
that tears open Worms as if to gaze upon their writhing Guts -
brutally cracks the Shells of Snails over their Bodies like -
shattered Shards of Earth - Ceramic - tossing Garden Gnomes from their Stoops -
battered and dustmade against Walls - drowning Sparrows - and Crows -
and filling their Beaks with scummy Pond Water - their feathered Forms bloated -
and tossed like Balloondeath upon the Ground -
Something stirs in the Dark hours of very early Morning - when the Dew -lays its icechill Fingertips upon the Heads, the Ears - the very Surface of the World -this Something lays claim to my Garden - every Nightmorning - dismantling It as if -to destroy every part of It is to destroy me - the Desire to rip out pulsating Organs and -splinter Bones - wet with Life -
To glare with Disdain into Eyes so Dead to the World that -
Something wants to tear brighter - shatter harsher - feast lovlier -
and when my Garden squelches - and Curls its destroyed Corpse in on itself -
Something will return to the Mound - to Rocks - and bulbous Mushrooms -
to a forbidden Home -
where Something there is that doesn’t like to be - disturbed -