Friday, November 22, 2013

The following poem is taken from the Horror short story;The Murder of Tom Bombadil, available in Amazon. Along with Price of a Portrait they make a macabre duet of Horror.
I hope you enjoy...
(Make the sound of a mad-man's laughter in your head, then let it slowly fade away...)

The Murder of Tom Bombadil

Young Tom sits on the grass alone,
Licking the melt from the ice cream cone.
For almost an hour, Tom had sucked it sour,
With hair as dark as a raven, shaven, craven.
For an hour he glowered as the ladies cowered,
With hair as dark as a raven.

A man, Tom walks up the church’s aisle
With a love kept chaste in a secret vial
For almost a year, we had kept it pure;
Frustration as deep as an ocean, lotion, motion.
For three hundred days, in a thousand ways
Frustration as deep as an ocean

But now Tom sits in his room alone
And watches and worries a withered crone
For many a year he had taken the sneer
And his mind began to shrivel, snivel, evil.
Tom left her a-lying in a pool of red.
And his mind began to shrivel.

Old Tom sits in his padded cell
And softly and surely, his worries quell
When the Sandman comes, he couldn’t tell
Because sleep was hard to come by, numb-by, numb-bye
But the blood still runs in the corpse’s thumbs
And sleep was hard to come by.

The old crone lies on her rug of pink
And her flesh and bones decay and stink
Fingers don’t twitch, and eyes don’t blink
For her dead body lies in the bedroom, redroom, deadroom.
Tom Bombadil’s fingers are covered in blood
And the crone’s a-lyin’ in the bedroom.

Up jumped Tom, with his big boots on
And he says to Detectives, “What is yon?
For it looks like a corpse of a wife of sorts
That turned a good man to a killer, spiller, thriller.
That tortured and pestered, while inside he festered,
And turned a good man to a killer”

Old Tom sits in the room and waits,
For the imps or the angels to open the gates,
For ten long years, he’d shed his tears,
And awaited the clash of the gavel, ravel, evil.
For ten long years, he’d shed his tears,
And awaited the clash of the gavel

So Tom, he sits in the room alone
Clutching and scratching the telephone
For ten long years he awaits the crone;
The body he pushed into the future, creature, butcher.
He sits and mumbles and waits alone
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