The Specter
Upon the cob-webbed shelf,
Within this ghastly mansion,
I spy the ancient tome
And wrestle it from its station.
A thunderous drop upon the table
Lets fly dust from eons past.
I open the volume with intrepid strength
Knowing words read within could be my last.
A tale spews so macabre
Of the specter that haunts these halls
In which I am but an interloper,
An intruder come to call.
Not a thief of items I claim to be,
But of knowledge and things that are.
So I sit within this candlelight
Reading stolen passages of things bizarre
As the hours climb throughout the night
And the story unfolds with its twisted take,
I feel the presence of one from beyond.
Come to spy on this foolish rake.
In conjunction with the lines I read,
Towards me, I feel it make its way.
And the room is suddenly chilled
As I turn another page of this dossier.
Unanticipated, a ghostly hand rests
Upon my goose-fleshed nape.
I feel its hand's feathery weight
And its skeletal shape.
A breath, cat-like, creeps from the apparition
Turning my blood so much colder.
I look from the book toward the fiend and scream,
"STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER!".
The room is tranquil once again,
As I resume my perusal.
No specter to pester me anymore,
Gone with its fear of my refusal.
Legion
(20Oct01)