The Thing in the Dark

A free-verse, morbid poem written after studying works by Edgar Allen Poe. (a W.I.P.)

4/25/2019

The shadows are frigid.

For the Sun has retreated to its bedchamber,

Plunging half of the World in murk.

And it’s in that darkness,

That I reside.

I lurk.

I watch.

Tangible as air and pervading as such.

Smooth as silk slipping between digits,

Yet painful as a ring of thorns.

I strike the hearts of those

Who dare glimpse at my countenance.

I stab the chest like a bullet through skin,

Swift. Unstoppable. Deadly.

I am omnipotent.

I can squeeze the happiness out of any poor mite,

Swallow towns in the blink of an eye,

Lock cities in my vice-like grip.

Consume entire nations before a scream can fly,

Engulf the globe overnight.

I claim their existence -

Of the good and the bad.

Without a thought about deeds done.

I merely take them.

No questions asked,

None answered.

But in the end, the Sun always returns.

That hateful ball of glare.

Sending me back to my dark cave,

Where I wait.

Biding my time,

For the next prospect of tenebrosity.

‘Cause, after all,

I am the Grim Reaper.