This weeks' theme took me back to my childhood, when the odd occasion arose where I couldn't sleep or woke in the night and heard those chilling creaks and cracks. The hair would stand on the back of my neck, fear would engulf me and I would hide beneath the sheets thinking that I would be safe under there. Really? I mean, how much protection could blankets really offer if you were going to be attacked in your bed? Silly isn't it? Our imagination can sometimes be our worst enemy.
I have resurrected an old poem this week which has been edited since first being written.
Harken to the night:
Cold beads of sweat
crawl across my brow.
Senses heightened,
breath shallow and rapid.
Every shadow,
every creak,
amplified, sinister,
creeping closer.
Moonlight streaks
through curtain chinks,
casting silver searchlights,
making the dark
inkier still.
Shadows camouflaged,
lurking unseen
'til slightest movement
betrays their position.
Eyes frantically stare
attempting to see
beyond the blanket
of deepest black.
A floorboard cracks,
closer than before.
Heart hammering
trying to escape
the burdensome confines
of its cage.
Gut wrenching,
seemingly to wring
other organs out,
pushing through the skin.
Skin pricking
like a million needles,
hair standing
at the nape of my neck.
Coldest fear
claws at my brain,
gnawing at common sense
for an early breakfast.
Thanks for reading. ;-) x
P.S. Don't forget to join the Lancashire Dead Good Poets' tonight at Silantro Cafe, Wood St, St Annes, for our Open Mic night. There's no theme for this one, so why not come and share some of your poetry, or if your not feeling that brave, you are always welcome to come and listen to others. It begins at 6pm. Don't miss it! ;-)
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