Death Of His Poetry

The poetic story you are about to read contains no false tellings of the true events written on the pages which you hold in your hands.

It was on a dark and not so quiet night, my lantern glowed its orangish light, all through the house not even a spider stirred, nestling between my feet the tuxedo cat purred.

Shadows of darkness danced on the wooden walls, ethereal creaks accompanied the halls, staring back at me is a blank sheet of manila paper, while above me the long dreary day begins to taper.

Clasped between the fingers of my hand is the feathered quill, please read on if you will.

As the ink and paper meld, to the song of night I no longer held, my eyes fell heavy, as a strange feeling washed over me like the flood of a broken levee.

The fingers of trees rapped at my window, the sudden feeling of dread became my unseen foe, here comes the main theme of this feature, as I detail the account of my death with a most devilish creature.

It started with the ghostly visit of a spirit girl, who had the velvety skin of a pearl, curl of hair, but she was not of this air.

With ghostly fingers she caressed me, with ghostly whispers she seduced me, she spoke the reapers tongue, her kiss snatched away the air from my lung.

Her true nature came to light, standing before me was the mask of death, I fear I’ll not escape this night, her voice was but a whisper, only if it were I who placed upon her foot the glass slipper.

The menacing shadow stood behind, black robed, skinless and all bone, his stare arrested my mind, it was my soul he wanted to find.

His hands of bone thrust through my stomach, I was a lame-duck, blood pooled, as my body cooled. I’ll never again speak the spoken verse, this bloody death is my curse.

My head landing atop the unfinished poem, I watched as brain matter sprayed the totem, I faded, now my poetry has been abated.

By Isaac Gathings 2017

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