The Trapped Poet:


I cannot write now.
The words will not form.
Prayers and curses from the dead,
whisper in the small breeze.


“I am trying to write”,
I whisper in a squeaky voice.
They laugh.


My pen scribbles words and phrases,
yet the feeling is not conveyed or shown.


The forms and shapes rattle in the darkening gloom;
“Write, Write” their ageless voices squeak and crackle.
They Laugh.


“Leave!” I scream,
in growing hysteria.


My door slams shut,
as the candle goes out,
leaving darkness.


They come and surround me,
on all sides,
and echo my screams.


Then it comes.
That evil mocking vibration.
They laugh.
~~~niantar~~~