Hidden by the Rustling Corn The shortcut through the Corn field tempts you as you’re walking home the clouds above keep the moon concealed As you enter the swaying corn, alone. - The corn grows tall and thick, my friend, the path you chose is muddy it grows in rows without scope or end and in the dark, you hurry - You don’t see the standing forms As you pass them on your way they stand still amongst the swaying corn which hides their pallor, and decay - hundreds gather in this field tonight though you see none at all yet still you look around in fright but the corn grows too thick, too tall - You tell yourself as you continue through “Its merely the rustling of the leaves,” But they see you, and they hear you, And they might not let you leave.

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