Demons

 

Demons are howling,

cackling, scowling.

In creeping shadows

their yellow eyes stare,

as their growls fill the air.

A cacophony of menace

under moonlight glare.

 

Screams echo through the wind,

like banshees wailing,

phantoms singing off key,

A tune of pain, hurt and misery.

Like the creak of a swinging tyre,

hanging from an old oak tree.

Are they singing for me?

Is that an axe I see?

 

Ravenous mouths bleed

from sharpened pointy teeth

Fear holds you by the feet,

Like hands from the grave beneath.

The nightmare too real to be a dream

Too painful to be my imagination.

But if it was real I could

bleat out more than a whimpered scream

I'd be free from these fearful palpitations.

 

The dead could arise,

zombie-like,

take to the streets.

Sleepy houses

hide the real beasts,

they sleep through the night,

dreaming of power and might.

They don't hide in fear at the bumps and knocks

or at the hands of the ticking clock.

 

 

Thanks For Reading,

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Peace, Love and Poetry.

Kyle.