When darkness tiptoed through our streets, we shut
the windows, blocked the doors before they knocked.
“This night is death”, you cried, “it stabs my gut”.
We listened to the tick-tock of the clocks,
and watched the shadows moulding into black,
your face, a pale reflection washed in ink.
I poured myself a scotch when on my back,
I felt its ice cold touch, a serpent slinked
foretelling that the visitors had come,
with raven wind and from the basement sighs,
and there was music, woodwind, strings and drums,
and rattling bones, retracted claws — You cried:
“I crave your blood, I’m one of them ”, you sneered,
and snapped my neck; I’ve slept with death I fear.
Today I host MTB at dVerse, where we try our best in writing narrative poetry. Tell us a story with beginning end and conclusion. Put me in the place, and introduce the characters. Use dialogue in your poem if you want, give me images and have fun. I wrote the first version of this sonnet last week, and I have basically only made a few changes to the end to give you a different story.
September 27, 2018