Friday, September 14, 2018

"The Return" by Ross Balcom

The Return

The sky
bleeds purple.

My mouth
tastes of soil.

"The Hand" Ink on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon
Where, where
have I been?

I must return
to the house 

on the hill.

A man 
with no eyebrows

the door.

His face
falls from his 

skull, squirms
on the ground.

I enter.

A vast 

and whirrs.

The professor?
He now has

six legs, and moves
like a bug.

I smile.

"You've changed,

I stroke
his antennae.

can frighten me.

Even the truth
is a lie.

--Ross Balcom

Poet's Notes:  This poem is a short, concentrated horror film. I suppose life itself is a horror film.

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