Poem: A Rose for Emily
When Miss Emily Greison died we all went to her grave,
For the rumors that surrounded her in life only death could make us brave.
The day turned black with a thunderous boom as down poured a heavy rain,
washing up the maggots and the worms upon her stone carved coffin mud stained.
In her youth Miss Emily's beauty brough burly men down to their knees,
with emerald eyes, skin pearly pale, silky hair flowing freely in the summer breeze.
Her father had wealth beyond any measure, the richest man of any town,
with a trove full of treasure that could match any church, state, or crown.
And so the noblest of suitors from every land and every creed,
took haste to Greison manor all as nominees,
in hopes of taking the hand of Emily and inheriting her fathers keys.
Yet things seemed a miss upon that hill which sat Greison estate,
and soon the town raced with tales of torture and tragedy we were filled with debate,
For no suitor that entered Greison manor has ever been seen to this date.
At first we thought no man was noble enough, her father strict and grand,
for the rivers ran, the leaves withered and whiteness filled the land,
yet no suitor had emerged victorious with Miss Emily hand in hand.
Some nights when the town was all asleep,
as one could hear the old oaks creek,
while cicadas hummed as a mighty moon rose at night's peak,
while the summer blew kisses to the clear starry sky silently,
a murderous scream would rend through the night violently.
Some would cry mercy while others would laugh cackling,
as though they could not believe as to what was happening.
When the wind would blow greatly down the hill, howling around the bend,
a putrid stench of death and decay would make our nose hairs stand on end.
And so the screams and streams of tears flowed from Greison manor without end,
until we rallied to seek out the truth and so went the Board of Alderman.
There stood before us at Greison manor, an old ebony man withered and haggard,
his face gaunt, eyes glazed, and with each step he staggerd.
Yet a horrid sight we beheld standing next to Toby,
a skeleton of her former self, the dreaded Miss Emily.
Her eyes sunken in, veins like ropes, standing motionless in anger,
save the glare in her eyes, the twitch of her lips, and the tapping of her finger.
And all around spider webs arched, dust paved marble slab, and danced about the air.
The mohogany had rot long ago, a house no one took care.
"We're here because", we sputtered, " no taxes you've paid in years...
and the stench of the garbage" he studdered, his voice brimming with fear.
"Be gone!", she croaked," I owe you nothing, ask General Satoris"
and to the rotted portriat she pointed,"I shall hear no more of this!"
"My father is ill, he needs his rest, I demand for you to leave!"
and so the front door opened and ushered us out Toby.
So days passed and word reached us Mr. Greison was deathly ill, until we carried his lifeless
corpse out, Miss Emily stating "he's alive, still".
That was the last we saw of her, till she died at seventy-three,
when her caretaker left town, to live, to be.
Yet the mystery of the manor laid heavy in our minds,
so our courage we mustered, to the hill to see what we could find.
And so we looked through every room of every corner down to the floor,
till last we reached up top the manor, the last remaining door.
Inside there laid a man upon a bed, decrepit and decayed,
and next to him a single strand of gray hair where someone must of laid.
"Could this be Homer Barron, we though he left long ago?"
when suddenly a chilling draft from behind the bookshelf began to blow.
A soft scraping could be heard from deep beneath the ground,
our imagination ran wild of dreadful dreams of what could be found.
And so our curiosity got the best of us, causing grave torment,
we were willed inside the black and so began our descent.
The dark damp staircase seemed endless, as each pass it seemed to grow longer,
as the stench of rot and earth began to grow stronger.
Finally we reached a door, we all began to heave
for what we found, the horror, no one would ever believe.
There laid upon a table, a man split side by side,
his organs in a pile, his skin hung above- a hide.
All along the walls wide eyes and open mouths gasped,
broken legs strewn in blood, as mangled arms reached out to clasp.
The scraping ceased, heavy steps began to grow, each footstep it increased,
till out came a man, rotted and red- he, the beast.
Mr. Greison smiled, scythe in hand, two abysmal holes in his head,
while a chilling voice from behind us spoke,"You see, he wasn't dead".
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