Horror

A tower built of an H looks over its comrades

five letters following to make a species withdraw

and seek caves and firesides that reflect reason back

onto its primate face

Rolling around on a dusty floor in some Victorian cottage

mewling and panting for light but never finding stairs

a new terror, sweetly ripe nightmare come to fruition

in the basement of a mad author

That Mad Arab writes again and the claret flows with the ink

deep and mortal a wound to the sanity of the world stretches

yawns a cavern waiting on a bookshelf to catch the unwary

the interested and adventurous, horror fan, like a masochist

hates themselves for spending two fifty for the novel but

loves the sound the whip makes all the same

It's always in the closet waiting

always right behind her when she turns around

always hungry, never sleeping, tall and thin

short and mean, fast and reaching

or slow and patient

It.

The monster.

Released as a bastard child by our dreams

stomping around our brain stems caged by lullaby

and prayers

But roll the stone aside and look in and

the worst thing of all

its gone

moved

Or perhaps it was never there, never hidden

never dormant

Dormancy

just a word,

what if the Id never sleeps

stand them next to each other

and they look like brothers don't they?

It.

Id.

Albeit the first is better dressed

than his Freudian sibling.

Decked in anglo-saxon phonemes

a wolf wearing his finest lamb