EAR-RIE

By Cat London

It was crunches and crackles

Fire and spurts of sound

Akin to bones on the ground.

But the fog was dense

And sound was shrouded

In “No, it couldn’t be…”’s

And the safety of most mornings.

For no one typically becomes

Dangerous with light encroaching,

But the fog wasn’t burning off

And the gravel in mixture

With plotted dirt and leaves cackling

Was holding on to the weight

Of what was snapping.

A prickling feeling where eyes don’t greet ears

And windows are wet with

This morning’s tears,

I saw from a shadow

A dance in the mist,

A figure of darkness

A movement, a twist.

From the wing of a vulture

And splitting the fog

Its stilted leg mixing

The clouds in cauldrons

Of morning’s wet potions,

A stir to the left,

In its Timely proportions

A visit from Death.

My ears and my eyes,

Now harshly focused

Through curtains of dew pearls,

Atmosphere soaking.

A monster emerged

But some pace from my door

With a scythe in its hand

To play tricks on a girl.

And I gasp and I yelled

“Please take off your mask!”

But it was not a man,

I was dying at last.

#darkpoetsclub