The Dour Dungeon Poem by Michael Fischer

The victims hang to the wintry walls
of the old devil’s dour dungeon.
They have long since passed away,
but their die hard dispositions live on.

Today, the sun makes its daily pass,
bringing light to their wretchedness.
The earsplitting outcries for help
can still be heard in the shivery wind.
The dying leaves cling to their trees,
like the victims clung to their lives.
The sullen skies reminds each of us
that with every day comes a night.

...And when nightfall seizes the day,
and the shivery wind evolves into
the fierce northwestern tempest,
Death’s hand will defeat many more
in the old devil’s dour dungeon;
where your only escape is death!