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25th September Song

They had to quickly move about the room to stay ahead of the shadows behind them. Sometimes their legs looked alive, sturdy as skinny logs, sometimes they looked like bent twigs flapping in the coiling wind. They had an odd union of glee and gloom, mouths turned upright, eyes turned down, hands clasped in hope, legs trembled, pale. They scuttled each day in front of darkness, the rasp of an acidy emptiness in tow. They were being pursued by something, something unaffected by fervent prayer or curbed by the ardent shuddering of death.


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman




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