My childhood nightmare wants a kiss.
He would not be denied.
He chased me ‘cross the bitter winter sea
with rolling tide.
He chased me through the wooded hills
and though I tried to hide,
he wanted it so badly that he
hunted with a pride.
He chased me down from northern climes
into the humid south.
“Come here, my child!” he yelled downhill,
“and give me your sweet mouth!”
He chased me from exotic east
to more pedantic west.
He chased til I could run no more
and granted me no rest.
And so I turned to face him,
ragged, dirty, out of breath.
His face was moonlit, shining eyes
a glazed, glaring eldreth.
My childhood nightmare got the kiss
he would not be denied,
and as he touched my cheek he wiped
the dark, sad tears I cried.
I took his face in hands of love
and kissed him.
And he died.
BlackQuill 