MAKERS OF MADNESS

By Juno Guadalupe

Leaping ahead—

a fleeting thing,

Through dead limbs

Brittle brush and jagged thorn.

Beneath black roots it slid—

The savage inside pressed me on

through rot and deep

When my leg was torn,

but blood pressed me on

Scent—decay of flesh, bone—

Stung the nose—

I pinched it,

Squinted forward so eyes could see

An aching cave.

“Show yerself!” into a hole

I never thought could be.

Only a knife—

The blade belonged to me

The lad tried to stick, but I stuck instead

Stabbed again until enough—

That tickle in my head.

I flew into the wood

And carried on for days

Until I seen the Haar

And landed in its bed.

It scraped the bone inside my skull

The meat inside my flesh

Then slurped—a boot in mud—

It called me.

“Who are you, then?” said I,

Brandishing the cutter.

It told me it were friends

I understood that it were true,

It knew me like no other.

I’d never told a soul

The thoughts in mind,

The ones I fought and lost.

Here I found the makers of madness

Stinking, festering clots of blood

They knew the murders,

Leaking beneath the dirt.

#DarkPoetsClub