I creep by candlelight
down the moonlit rows,
stopping here and again
to run a finger along
a stone-hewn epitaph:
Here lies Tom Hardy
(but no mention of
the man he killed).
There are others, too, names
overshadowed by deeds.
A few are favorites
to which I often return,
as a peckish man returns
to pick a turkey carcass;
a keen eye will not fail
to find a fleshy morsel
or even a bit of marrow.
As I pry the dusty covers,
each stifling sanctum
takes a suffocating gasp
then, with rancid breath,
hisses a sinister sigh.
I turn the bones, brittle
as aged pages yellowing
in ancient tomes. I filch
a few moldy relics—
quickly, quietly. I dare not
utter a word aloud
lest my voice sound hollow,
merely an eerie echo
of the dead. I shrink
from a smirking skull,
its eyeless sockets locked
on me, knowingly. Retreating
with a lumpy burlap sack,
I creep back to my covert
eager to stitch another
macabre patchwork.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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I came here looking for comedy and instead found something more. Thank you.
Hi
Desiree
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"creeping back to the sepulchre
where I stitch
my macabre patchwork"
intriguing write. very vivid imagery. i like that the ending is a bit mysterious. i enjoyed this. - NANGALEEMA
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Nicely done
Wonderful, I like the way this works as a metaphor for creating macabre poetry.
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