Butcher-man

Ward by ward,

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

 

 

Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff

 
You can find my New books
"Tales from the 44A" and "Stations
here
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DBKXPN13/
and here

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0DFV8N7XH

 

Please buy a copy if you can

it would really help me
continue to do this.

Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle