Author’s Note: I’m back, and I’m back to bring you some more of Espantalho’s Bad Poetry. This poem is actually one of my favorites because I tried some new techniques in it: I chose a free verse style (don’t have to have a specific rhyme scheme), and I also chose to write half of the poem in one week and half in the other. The result is pretty strange, but I dig it, somehow. I’m sure all of you smart cookies knew this already, but just to be sure: “Somnambulist” means “sleepwalker”. Enjoy, and please leave me a review, for they turn me into a big balloon o’ happiness :)

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The Somnambulist

The clock strikes twelve, the witching hour

Wooden floorboards creak; bare feet rub the splintered oak

Unheeding of the time and the place

The somnambulist strikes a pose

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The candle’s lit, the long charred wick

The staircase displayed by the long firey mark

Of the wax piller in the somnambulist’s hand

The subconscious demands

Movement

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Outside the light the world sleeps

Raccoons and moths and all the stars keep

But inside the quiet introspective glow

The somnambulist ambles on

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Down hallways truss’d with nighttime must

The somnambulist makes a prowl

Outside the window, dark mammalian forms

And the dark wings of night fowl

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High above and to the left

Another lifts his weary head

Down stairs and halls he makes his way

And ushers the somnambulist to bed.

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The end! Did you like it?