catch up

What follows is the text of several blogs from the past that did not get "moved foreward" when blogger in all its glory went to its new form. I will hence close out that other site never to return.

Friday, August 25, 2006

The shadows where the Mewlips dwell
Are dark and wet as ink,
And slow and softly rings their bell,
As in the slime you sink.

You sink into the slime, who dare
To knock upon their door,
While down the grinning gargoyles stare
And noisome waters pour.

Beside the rotting river strand
The drooping willows weep,
And gloomily the Gorcrows stand
Croaking in their sleep.

Over the Merlock mountains a long and weary way,
In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,
By a dark pool's borders without wind or tide,
Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.

The cellars where the Mewlips sit
Are deep and dank and cold
With single sickly candle lit;
And there they count their gold.

Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;
Their feet upon the floor
Go softly with a squish flap flip
As they sidle to the door.

They peep out slyly; through a crack
Their feeling fingers creep,
And when they've finished, in a sack
Your bones they take to keep.

Beyond the Merlock mountains, a long and lonely road,
Through the spiders shadows and the marsh of Tode,
And through the wood of hanging trees and the gallows weed,
You find the Mewlips - and the Mewlips feed.

.... Old Tom B. had it right, the inner journey is no picnic.