Twenty-Five By The Lake.

Posted: February 13, 2016 in History, Literature, Uncategorized
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Many people know me as primarily a writer of all things nasty and grotesque, but few may remember the days when I spent most of my time writing lyrics for my band, and endless notebooks of melancholic poetry. It was all undoubtedly bad, but we all have start somewhere right? Might as well get the awful stuff out first. Ah, high school, such a glorious time for inspiring the misunderstood rejects who paraded through its halls. I have fond memories of those days, despite being trapped within the thrall of yowling hormones, matriarchal abandonment, and a posse of shapeshifting characters I called my friends.

I hope you enjoy it, it’s short so please have a read, and remember my dearest darklings, stay scared.


Twenty-Five By The Lake.. Dean Sexton

The Twenty-Five from the Lake.

Here is the story, from me to you,
Of the ones who plagued me so.
It would seem their tale,
Of plight and sorrow,
Began not long ago.

I write this now, grim lullaby,
Before I come to pass,
For the Twenty-Five, now Twenty-Six,
Whose story demand be passed.

At first they haunted my deepest dreams,
My slumber disturbed by endless screams,
And prodding fingers cold and blue,
Their eyes were a glistening, hateful void

With a paleness alike the moon.

Their fog-like skin fuelled terror within,
I bark from me to you,
Their voices were shrill, ghost reveries,
Telling tales of vicious sin.

But beneath their icy, watery gaze,
I noted a sadness deep within,
These wretched ghostly, drowned souls,
Desired something stolen from their kin.

Although they spoke, but not a word,
Their voice was true as day,
They spoke of deceit, of murder, and betrayal,
Of vengeance for their dismay.

This cottage of mine, of my inheritance,
The one beside the lake,
Was once their land, was once their home,
And not for us to take.

We burned their village, we raped their women,
Their children were enslaved,
And so the planks of evil came,
Erecting a monolith of pain.

The Twenty-Five,

The red skinned clan,

The ones who loved the lake,
The murdered souls, thrown deep beneath,
Thrown deep within the lake.

These tortured souls, these hateful ghouls,
Had found me at long last,
The last born son, the next of kin,
The name my father passed.

And so this story, from me to you,
This tale I’ve come to pass,
The Twenty-Five, now Twenty-Six,
For I’ve become the last.

Copyright Dean Sexton 2006-Present.


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