As it is so close to Halloween, I thought a creepy poem might be in order. I wrote this three years ago for a contest. I didn’t win, but I did get quite a few good reviews, of which I am proud.
Built of bone, no more no less
Depraved of a soul
But still smiling his best.
Nonchalantly sitting against a great oak,
He stares out at the meadow:
Nothing much bothers this stony old bloke.
A termite nibbles his rib cage,
While a butterfly rests on his skull;
Between his bones grows wild sage.
He does not start to throw a fit
See, he can do nothing –
And he cares not the slightest bit.
His only friends are the shadows,
The night and day,
And a sad, lonely scarecrow.
The meadow itself is such a poor sight:
Frost grabs all life with ravenous hands,
The ground is dry, delivering no life.
Crows circle through the air with greed,
And cry loudly in the trees limbs
For it’s more of him that they want and need.
If he could speak, would he rant and rave?
Nay, he would laugh at them;
For all that he had of his flesh, he gave.
The gray sky threatens to bring down rain,
And the gray wildflowers are wilting,
Some poor animal gives a shriek of pain.
The trees moan and creak restlessly
As the wind flies through, howling.
Passing silently is the world’s worst enemy
Death floats by with his aura of desolation
He has come to collect exhausted souls
Who are fearfully subject to his damnation.
But none of this seems to bother the fellow,
Endlessly smiling the time away;
What is it that makes him appear so mellow?
His grinning and laughing seem to grow,
For the joke is on everyone else:
But grim is his humor, and rightly so.
The shadows pass by, making horrible faces
An unseen danger approaches
They flee, ne’er wanting to be in his place.
The crows swiftly fly away, crying “Griever!”
Death is scowling and muttering his curses
While the Skeleton refuses to quiver.
Because he knows Death’s power is naught but fear.