The Expectancy

Like  a bad smell lingering just below

of ice and fire concealed by leathery skin

serpentous forms slither and sinewy wind

around limbs, that will wither and die

and the great moon’s clock impassive

tick then ever so slowly tock.

Crows caw in the graveyard dark

and cadavers stir below the ground.

It’s the horror call and I answer putting

down coffee cup in slow motion. The colour

drains from my skin and my eyes bulge wide.

The pot belly becomes corpse bloat and with

slow shuffling steps, I step outside where the

world is bathed in the incandescent glow of an orange fire

which makes my eyes corpses hollow and my hair

a grey and white matted twist wild and inhuman.

Others join me and a low moan is heard that I echo

and soon the zombie hoard is gathered waiting for

human flesh. overhead the crows circle and wait for

the expectancy: death.

An attempt to write about feelings that hover just below the surface: social anxiety.

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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