The Return
The sky
bleeds purple.
My mouth
tastes of soil.
 |
| "The Hand" Ink on Paper By J. Artemus Gordon |
have I been?
I must return
to the house
on the hill.
A man
with no eyebrows
opens
the door.
His face
falls from his
skull, squirms
on the ground.
I enter.
A vast
apparatus
flickers
and whirrs.
The professor?
He now has
six legs, and moves
like a bug.
I smile.
"You've changed,
Doctor."
I stroke
his antennae.
Nothing
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.