Before you read: I wouldn't consider this a poem. In my mind, it was more of a story that has a rhyme but no particular rhythm, so don't let that throw you off. Just imagine it as being narrated by... well, someone who tells ghost stories at a campfire.
It has no face, it has no mouth; It cannot speak but wordless screams. It has pale skin, so cold to touch, and It haunts your lonely, vacant dreams
It cannot walk or run upright; instead It will crawl, or creep, or hide under the stairs, below the bed...
It creeps, its crawls, its way inside.
It cannot feel like you and I. It will not cry, It will not laugh - but if It should bare its teeth, remember It feels not joy, no - only wrath.
It may kill quickly, but seldom so - It follows Its prey across the years, not seen or heard, but only felt, in sorrow, in solitude and tears.
It hides in you as well as I, but that is no reason, I swear, to fret - for it lives in us all, and not so deep. But once it's there you'll never forget -
Its vacant eyes as they stare at you, Its sharp claws digging into your skin, Its inhuman mouth twisted into a bone-chilling grin.
Do not worry if It's in your dreams - do not even worry, my dear friend, if you can see It chasing me, for It will rarely lead us to our end.
It has a name, if you wonder so, that spans the centuries spread by ear. If you encounter the hellish beast...
Remember only its name is fear.
YOU ARE READING
The String
PoetryThe strings that lead me back when I floated away. This will be a collection of my poems and any relatively short stories I come up with.
