MY POEMS #11 'Poor Self-Image'

'Poor Self-Image' By Jesse Young (2012)

T'was in the wee hours one chill December morn,
Whereof old moorland; miasma did take its form.
While odious rites invoked long-forgotten things,
Did barely realised nightmares earn for them black wings.
Something ageless, something old, stirs beneath the icy cold.
So dread a thing; fear'd flee, rather than beside 'it' be.
Malice and nothing but, claims this blight for it's rut.
Its raison d'etre: seek, torments countless to wreak.
Surely 'tis you shall pique, to know of whom I speak.
Draw near the edge; stare down, at a visage so clear,
Watch closely now; your watery image appear.