There was something moving in the woods….

We listened with intent, garlic-heavy breath,

having just consumed an erstwhile vampire.

Mr. Vein gathered all our attention to his bosom

(gray, mottled thing that it was, more suited

to a moth monster than a man of his sensibilities)

and treasured the moment, not knowing when

when we’d all gather again in his house of bones

to hear stories and, after hours of his low voice,

demand more til sunlight spread like a leaking wound,

spelling the end of our satisfying, unholy visit.

 


Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he teaches English. He writes poetry as often as he can. Learn more at www.writingforghosts.com.

June 8, 2018

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