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Description
Painting painted, poem penned for the creepy god, Decay.
OC created by BloodyNgore .

DECAY

Do you know the frail geezer, Decay?
I tell you, I met him one day.
Wore a crown of fat leeches,
Hollow his speech was,
That drove my good senses away.

Still my brain feels upside-down,
Yet I remember his gossamer gown,
A black holey cassock,
Wilted, thoracic,
Crinkled when dragged 'cross the ground.

I watched as he plied his dark trade,
All that he touched, withered and waned.
Mushrooms on elbows
Grew when he leaned low
Whisp'ring spells deep into graves.

His haggard hand tooled with his sceptre,
A rusted bent spade, befitting this spectre
(Musty, aged provost),
Tilled the moist compost,
Rooting around like a wormy prospector.

He prodded a skull like a thief,
Crumbled the bone, but not the gold teeth!
Each kept as a trophy,
Hallowed atrophy,
Awarded above and beneath.

Then snoringly he disappeared,
With crusty dank eyes and cobwebbed ears,
Back to his crypt
From whence he crept,
To tally his tome of arrears.

We all owe a debt to Decay!

_

Description
Painting painted, poem penned for the creepy god, Decay.
OC created by BloodyNgore .

DECAY

Do you know the frail geezer, Decay?
I tell you, I met him one day.
Wore a crown of fat leeches,
Hollow his speech was,
That drove my good senses away.

Still my brain feels upside-down,
Yet I remember his gossamer gown,
A black holey cassock,
Wilted, thoracic,
Crinkled when dragged 'cross the ground.

I watched as he plied his dark trade,
All that he touched, withered and waned.
Mushrooms on elbows
Grew when he leaned low
Whisp'ring spells deep into graves.

His haggard hand tooled with his sceptre,
A rusted bent spade, befitting this spectre
(Musty, aged provost),
Tilled the moist compost,
Rooting around like a wormy prospector.

He prodded a skull like a thief,
Crumbled the bone, but not the gold teeth!
Each kept as a trophy,
Hallowed atrophy,
Awarded above and beneath.

Then snoringly he disappeared,
With crusty dank eyes and cobwebbed ears,
Back to his crypt
From whence he crept,
To tally his tome of arrears.

We all owe a debt to Decay!

_