Jack

Fog fell fast and crawled to the Crypt, air of bleak dusk
Rooted far down, sunk, bitter, with a biting musk

Lone stood He, strange, lank, and spooky, in mist, shrouded
Lit by lamp, a dim hallowed gaze shone on his frown
The confines of His dark, murky mind bent, crooked, clouded
The bud of madness pitched in his wisdom, with hatred it's sown

Disks of white, a black centered hollow, shrieked mutely
Stem of mind now plagued by the Jester's Song
Lurid sockets housing His ken, fester lunacy
Inky pupils shiver with rancor for far too long
The stone Tomb humbly cradled the seed of His Sire's Son