something is moving in the darkness
a big broken thing
its body like a bruise
its face like a needle
it crouches in sunless rooms
and blinks at red lights
it must wait itself to sleep each night
the bleeding never stops
dying seems to take a lifetime
but it is very patient
it has a tongue but only barely
and no words pass over it
there is only hush and gasp
listen closer
something is moving in the darkness
it rests on its knuckles
as it opens its mouth
wider and wider
I wrote this last night, from old notes. It needs polish, but I like it. Buddha knows we need more horror poetry in the world.
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