The Bog At Faerie Glen Poem by T J Morgan

The twinklin and stinklin of the bog at Faerie Glen
lured many a trav'ller, every now and then.
Shuddering sands 'neath weary feet
suckin' and slurpin', there's no retreat.
Tis no sirens work, just folklore and myth
the promise of riches, come, come, forthwith.

Dumply and festering, rank in its lair
gnarled, twisted mangroves whisper...beware
Rancidity oozes, but still, they go forth
stumbling deeper, drawn further, pulled north.
The wind grows bitter, spitefully clutching,
lank tendrils festoon, mournfully touching.

Brown velvet aromas rise playfully high,
cloaked in delight, masks dark malign.
Poison pits, glittering water merge cruelly,
whispers of treasure, a giant horde truely!
So come, enter if you dare, tread carefully yet.
Find ye riches? Or end up so horribly, terribly dead?