I woke up. I sat up. I looked around,
by Maynard Hartman
and tried to shake that awful sound,
that wafted eerily down on the shore.
The place I slept the day before.
I cleared my eyes, and tried to see,
a thing that glowed beside a tree.
It was a hulking construct of stone,
that played a grotesque xylophone.
Made precisely, and entirely of bone.
I crept up slowly to the sound.
Then suddenly, my feet—
were rooted to the ground.
It looked at me, then said 'You see…
with your ribs I can make the perfect key,
to finish this cursed melody.'