A poem about: The town of Levallon in November 1892. tenebrous, eerie, bleak, dank, The Silent Orchard cemetary, burial ground, tree, her once healthy form had become pale, thin, emaciated, always drenched in sweat, face a livid crimson, sunken eyes, hard of breathing, blood on her lips and sheets, panting heavily, suffering, dead leaves, the body of Morna Lorna Bleu, was the age of 18, lost her life to consumption. Night, stars, chill, air, burial ground, figure, shadows, nefarious, sinister, body thief, resurrectionist, he was short and very round, short limbs and yet very strong, spade and shovel, knife, revolver, rope, sack, worn long coat, pine box, stench, oppressive, he smiled, exhumed, buried in a dark brown dress, long dark hair, he strips the body bare, morbid delight, chest of the body breasts face hair, decay embrace, he's happy, suddenly the body's eyes open, pure white, mouth opens stench of rancid meat, rot, the resurrectionist terrified horrified the corpses grabs his wrist tight pulls him towards with tremendous force, embrace, the corpse mouth open and the tongue cold and moist the resurrectionist tries to pull away put can't, he begins to feel weak, sick, and terrible pain, drops dead and the corpse rips open his shirt and cuts open the belly with knife face buried in the guts

The town of Levallon in November 1892. tenebrous, eerie, bleak, dank, The Silent Orchard cemetary, burial ground, tree, her once healthy form had become pale, thin, emaciated, always drenched in sweat, face a livid crimson, sunken eyes, hard of breathing, blood on her lips and sheets, panting heavily, suffering, dead leaves, the body of Morna Lorna Bleu, was the age of 18, lost her life to consumption. Night, stars, chill, air, burial ground, figure, shadows, nefarious, sinister, body thief, resurrectionist, he was short and very round, short limbs and yet very strong, spade and shovel, knife, revolver, rope, sack, worn long coat, pine box, stench, oppressive, he smiled, exhumed, buried in a dark brown dress, long dark hair, he strips the body bare, morbid delight, chest of the body breasts face hair, decay embrace, he's happy, suddenly the body's eyes open, pure white, mouth opens stench of rancid meat, rot, the resurrectionist terrified horrified the corpses grabs his wrist tight pulls him towards with tremendous force, embrace, the corpse mouth open and the tongue cold and moist the resurrectionist tries to pull away put can't, he begins to feel weak, sick, and terrible pain, drops dead and the corpse rips open his shirt and cuts open the belly with knife face buried in the guts

In the town of Levallon, cold and dank,
Where November's whisper through shadows sank,
A tale unfolds in the Silent Orchard's grasp,
Where mourners tread on dead leaves' rasp.

Morna Lorna Bleu, her youth laid bare,
Once vibrant in health, now a thinned despair,
Her sunken eyes, a livid fire's trace,
Sweat-drenched, breath short, blood on face.

At eighteen’s tender gate, consumption's snare,
Took her away to the grave's cold care,
Leaves brushed her form in a dank, bleak rune,
Beneath chill stars, in night's mournful tune.

In this burial ground, nefarious did stalk,
A resurrectionist in shadows, silence to balk,
Short and round, yet strength in his hands,
Tools of dismay, his evening plans.

With spade and shovel, knife, and rope,
He defiled the earth with despair and hope,
The coffin opened with sinister glee,
He stripped her bare, in dark revelry.

But horrors turned upon his sin,
As white eyes blinked, dread stirred within,
The corpse revived with rancid breath,
Embraced the thief, promising death.

Her grip unyielding, tight and grim,
His screams swallowed by night’s hymn,
In rotting embrace, the grave's cold lore,
A feast of vengeance, evermore.

And there he lay, beneath the weight,
Of greed and folly, met his fate,
The resurrectionist sold his soul to decay,
In Levallon’s tenebrous, eternal stay.

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In the town of Levallon, cold and dank, Where November's whisper through shadows sank, A tale unfolds in the Silent Orchard's grasp, Where mourners tread on dead leaves' rasp. Morna Lorna Bleu, her youth laid bare, Once vibrant in health, now a thinned despair, Her sunken eyes, a livid fire's trace, Sweat-drenched, breath short, blood on face. At eighteen’s tender gate, consumption's snare, Took her away to the grave's cold care, Leaves brushed her form in a dank, bleak rune, Beneath chill stars, in night's mournful tune. In this burial ground, nefarious did stalk, A resurrectionist in shadows, silence to balk, Short and round, yet strength in his hands, Tools of dismay, his evening plans. With spade and shovel, knife, and rope, He defiled the earth with despair and hope, The coffin opened with sinister glee, He stripped her bare, in dark revelry. But horrors turned upon his sin, As white eyes blinked, dread stirred within, The corpse revived with rancid breath, Embraced the thief, promising death. Her grip unyielding, tight and grim, His screams swallowed by night’s hymn, In rotting embrace, the grave's cold lore, A feast of vengeance, evermore. And there he lay, beneath the weight, Of greed and folly, met his fate, The resurrectionist sold his soul to decay, In Levallon’s tenebrous, eternal stay.