King of the Sulphury Void

Reluctantly donning his dark hood, the Rector took up an oil lamp from beside the door, leading the unexpected visitors outside. One of the visitors sniffed the air as, together, they left the stone sanctuary behind them, stepping into an open space ahead; beyond that, lay a dark forest. To follow the path through the lea was mundane for the old rector even amid the tottering shadows of a cloudy moonlight and a flickering lantern. His guests followed apace as the priest contemplated somewhat to himself the extent to which prowess can supplement wisdom. Halting at a gate, the priest turned to face the guests behind him, stifling a gag as he caught a glimpse of their faces. He saw them exchange some understanding through nothing but eye contact. Witnessing such rapport with such an inhuman being afflicted the rector with uncanny and unease. The human agent looked to the priest and nodded. "Enter the cemetery here," said the Priest's bowed head, "do not tarry, the witching hour." As the two guests entered the passage into the tombs, a raven frozen black to a tree branch above cawed at the stars, marking the entrance of the unearthly beings. Then, except for the sound of the Rector's robes ruffling in the wind as he retreated quickly to his quarters, the dark field lay dead silent.

I think I might need to have a lie-down, not my normal self at all

Winter's root impinges
fogs the shrapnel in my hinges
Ferrous filings dim the millwork
filling to its fringes

The bray of abrasion
chronic, deranging -
A tinnital whittling
of pig-iron ore
hogged in a heap
on an earthen floor

Dustly shards detach the rasp
lungward bound on an annexed gasp
Rusting splinters drill my rind
galvanic as a chigger's hasp
a suffuse bind
The curdled sinter
freely sifts
into my sluice of mind.