The Doll Of Bathory Baker Poem by Aven Black

There was a forced solemness among the mourners at the tiny grave. Thick clouds drew grey glazes in fear of drying the tears of those who dared to weep. They all weeped for her sake... Little Bathory Baker.
The sole daughter of the towns only hat-maker.
She grew no more past ten, yet a dire spirit lurked within her. She was unable to cry that day, little Bathory Baker.
Standing at her mothers ill-fed side she stared at the tiny grave too.
'i see no point in this affair' said her father about the day, 'to bury what was not ever alive is a sorry state to cause...'
Bathorys doll had been severed a head, and now the little girl declared it dead. Drinking the blood of the young is, one could say, a very decadent cure for keeping the age away.
And so in the wallow they sway, mourning blankly in that day. The day that Bathory Baker got her life sucked away.
And so, dried to the bone of the krovvy that her hungry father did crave, little Bathory Baker spoke from beyond the lumpy grave, 'and now my dear little dolly, without your mounted head, you can be like me... And be lifelessly dead.'