Skulls of the dead,
Piled helter-skelter,
Staring with blank eye-sockets,
Seeming to penetrate my soul.

There are odd skulls
Scattered here and there.
Some with curved horns,
Some with long, unnaturally slim faces.
Others have canines,
Too long for their mouths.

Then, among the skulls,
There are remnants of
A few skeletons,
Two dozen or so.

Most appear human,
But some are different,
Some short and thick,
Or too tall, and too slender.
There is even a skeleton
With too many bones
As if it was winged in life.

A lone voice whispers
"Where am I?"
Then screams
"What am I?!"
There is scrabbling
At the walled up door.
It was a hundred years ago
That this spell was cast.

Nothing happened for so long,
It was considered a failure.
The evidence of this bloody ritual
Was quickly walled up.

What no one counted on
Was what crawled from
The vat of blood,
Which did not dry out...
The result of their spell,
The creature they created.
It took so long to create me,
That no one can tell me why
I was made.
 
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