Dark Tales of Nightingale: The Clinic
 

Ask and ye shall recieve. Some of you were interested of reading more of these tales, so I posted another new one that you won't find on my LemonFingers account. Lucky you.

Like I said on my last post, this is one of a few poems that I've been writing for a few months now for a book I hope to publish. They are all tales based around the fictional city of Nightingale, which is somewhere in England. I've posted some older ones on my LemonFingers account but I've written a few new ones and wanted to see what different groups made of my work. So it's posted here to see what you all think and to see if my book is worth finishing.


Upon a shadowy crusted hill
With withered, cracking grass,
There’s a place where screams are heard at night
And hands claw at the glass.

For in this dismal mansion lies
An odd group that you’ll find,
Of foaming mouths and clicking teeth
Of those who’ve lost their mind.

The Clinic is, in all respects,
A quite abysmal jail.
For those who some majority
Cast off to rot and stale.

There is a man who claims that he
Can see souls of the dead.
At this the doctors shrieked aloud
And drilled into his head.

A little girl that sits and plays
With dollies all the night.
But do not venture too far near,
For she is known to bite.

A group of boys that tease and trick,
Your anger they will worsen.
At least they would if they were not
In fact a single person.

And last of all a boy who laughs
At things we won’t find funny.
But granted, only he can see
That giant purple bunny.

You will come to like this place
I think you will decide.
For they are far more interesting
Than people are outside.

They do enjoy their stay out here,
Their life is quite serene.
But I guess that’s just because
They’re full of Promazine.