A bad black horse
with the heart of blackthorn
steals into my head
with skin gone to chitin
he slaughters my dreams
plays skirmish with the visions
while I sleep
he does what he likes there
till lost in the labyrinth
he rots
make cesspool of the flesh
next day I feel
the damage

They will carry me to the field
through wreaths of mist
moist on my face
and the lambs will pause
for a thoughtfull stare
the soldiers will come
they will lay me in the dark cold earth
and push the clods upon my face

and the labyrinth fades...

John Marsden "The dead of the night"