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.
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