The nightmares of the innocent
begin when the
closet doors
are left open,
and foul and hungry things
creep under the beds
and hide
in the corners.
The barrier to the netherworld
is shored up and reinforced
by closet doors.
Be vigilant
in their care and cleaning.
Keep them free of shadows
and they will leave,
and wait
until
a more opportune time.
I hear the children crying
at the bottom of the well.
In hot and chafing chains they march,
and journey into hell.
And on the misty hilltop starts
the ringing of the bell.
The children slowly change to creatures
of a wicked spell.
They snarl and growl and claw and bite
with every tolling knell.
A cloud of death surrounds them
with a rotten carrion smell.
To a pagan god they’re praying
to be free but they’re all staying.
Yes, I hear the children baying
at the bottom of the well.
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 