PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

6

One day she said her two dead eyes had seen
a vision of the man---out of whose skull
her eyes had been extracted---climbing from
his nameless, pauper's grave.  Cheaply embalmed,
he was (to say the least) not well composed
(his hard life having never been composed
as well as certain others' of his peers).
He meant to make his way to her, she said:
to take his eyes back, eyes that she had killed
to spend her one night, sighted but without
light; and her gamble worse than some of his.

7

I drew the graveyard shift later that year,
after the autumn equinox lenghtened
the nights, and brought new colors to trees' leaves.
One night, watching a late show on t.v.,
I started to gag at a rotten smell;
it was more rank than any slaughterhouse;
brought by a chilling breeze.  That ghastly stench
was far worse than a human nose can stand.
My breath hitched in my lungs; I gagged; my flesh
trembled down to my bones.  This was real fear,
the kind I had never experienced.

8

A woman's piercing scream of agony
shattered the silence down the corridor
by that old blind woman's room.  No one else
resided in that section.  I ran there---
in just a few short seconds.   At the door,
I saw her body sprawled upon the floor,
blood everywhere.  Her skull had been crushed in.
But far more terrible than any sight
I had hitherto seen, imagined, or
dreamed in my nightmares was the monstrous thing
that bent over her, harvesting her eyes.