he prowls.
A doctor of death
with blood-soaked gowns.
The Butcher-man,
Oh, that name causes
howls of fear, then silence.
No sound
except the sharpening
of knives
and the echoed thuds
of bodies dropping down.
Deprived of lives.
Staff claim
to not know his name, feign
ignorance,
but the fear stalking their eyes
is no game,
the way they divert away and around
at each of the nights
tormenting sounds, so quick,
and the drowning noise
of a dripping vein
runs down
the lengthy corridor
loud and thick.
You can hear the blades
screaming across
the window shades.
His billowing gown
and apron merge
as one with the ground.
The dripping drumbeat
of a final heartbeat,
pulsing blood
jangles through a corpse
held on a dangling hook,
by the feet
Even the gremlins scatter
when the Butcher-man walks.
The shadows shiver,
lights dare not stutter.
Spend
a night
in his presence,
then spend forever
living in terror
