My Baby, come close

And Papa will tell you

Of a miracle you may not believe;

Your Grandmother’s Grandfather

Did build our home

From the bones

Of a long-charmed tree.

And when Papa was snared

By the ills of the night,

Those hallowed walls did twist their knots

With inspired precision,

Into grotesque impressions

Of fiendish Oaken Folk, 

Whose eyes accused with intensity indescribable.

It is from there

That these possesors first came

To be known by the one who loves you,

And offers you his truth.

Yes, long before your Papa 

First learned to burn

Fantastic imaginings upon birch and pine,

There were strange faces

Born from the bones of the wood

Whose flesh were the hallowed walls

Of your Grandmother’s Grandfather’s house.

And faint Goblins did dance 

Upon the mirror, long

And yes,

Shadow Spiders coalesced

To cluster in dark fellowship

Under the roof that sheltered

Your Papa’s head.

And that head harbored a childish mind

That soaked up the stains

Of the Oaken Faces

That did live in the bones

Whose flesh formed the walls

Of your Grandmother’s Grandfather’s house.

Strange faces in the wood.

Now bleeding out again.

They need you to know them.

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