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Salvation found on deadfall path,
the trail half-cleaved, machete swath.
A Franklin stove in lonely shack
was shelter from torrential wrath.

These wearied souls, wet socks peeled back,
were toasting fire with full woodstack.
The door flashed open with a chill,
his lumbered hulk, their faces slack.

“Don’t scare yourselves, my name is Bill,
I work up river at the mill.
But if you like, I’ll tell a tale
to raise your hair and give a thrill.”

They huddled close against the gale
of storm that took itself to hail,
attending unshaved whispers, pale
against their fears of night-long wail.

Note:  I’ve got this idea  about a collection of poems using this form, the rubaiyat, that are horrific in some way.  I believe I’d title it Rubies of Dread, with this being the introductory piece.  Does this sound like a good idea to you?  Anything in particular seem like a good subject matter?

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