by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|Breathe in the scent of fear.
The legend screams alive,
Darkness waiting no longer.
In winter, our own
Cold death stalks
Each ghostly haunted sigh.
The taste tingles
On frozen holiday smiles,
Lips the Christmas Witch has kissed.
Stealing, tugging at wrinkled worry,
Devouring the wonder and joy
Of remembered child-like innocence.
We are never good enough.
The legend that is Frau Perchta picks at,
Stirs the ready harvest of soul sores,
Leaving our Christmas cheer an echo,
Wanting. Plucking a heart string
Of misery, she listens.
Is the disharmony enough?
No, the air vibrates ready for more.
Prechta will visit again next year.
21 line free verse entry for December's Dark Dreamscapes Poetry Contest