The Grimoddwin man.

The Grimoddwin man.

The Grimoddwin man had blood red hands;
he’d stalk the hills from clan to clan.

And all who saw his grotesque brands, wept in
fear of such a man.

His eyes were pits, his lips all split, his
nose a flaming a spear tip.

His torso too, it's un-pure, and to flies it proved
a potent lure.

And with this bait they did mate, and into
his heart the maggots ate.

But this rip cage though all unmade, burned
with a spectral demon flame.

Still you’ll learn that worms did turn in the
blazing, blinding misty urn.

He’d stamp the ground and demand his pound!
With the bands all gathered round.

Grimly, grim and profoundly hurt he’d shake
the pillars of the Earth!

Burnt by the sun and blessed by moon, he haunts
the hills and calls the gloom.

Through snag and crack and trundle down, his
shadow stills all insect sounds.

He has a sieve, his hands drip red, he takes the
wounds of all who’ve bled.

He cuts the bright webs of silken threads, he heals
all hurt, and he conveys the dead.

A wounded heart, or shattered head, unrequited
love, let the dead stay dead.

And that’s Grimoddwin’s plan man, he stands on
guard, he divides the lands.

From vale and verge to vapored void, passed him
escapes no souls noise, except fly whispers and
winds howl.