A Horror Poem Beneath the willow tree’s mourning veil, A child whispered, small and pale. “Grant me peace,” her soft voice pled, The branches sighed, the sky turned red. Leaves like tears began to fall, As roots crept close to heed her call. The ground hummed low, the air grew tight, Her shadow swayed in ghostly light. Now every dusk, the willow weeps, For what it keeps, and what it eats. By E. M. Page