a sonnet about monsters, the internal ones
Monsters, more imagined than real, live here
behind my eyes. Specters of want and need,
ghostly hunters, famished, feasting on fear,
on pale, pre-cancerous lesions they feed.
Soft worries I sought protection against,
though never occurring, rot in my brain
and leave me to cope with the fetid stench
of failure to deal with truth that remains.
I tried sweeping demons under the rug,
the devils refuse to just die away.
They skid out the edges with careless shrugs
dusting moonlight as late night music plays.
When you call the name of the wolf, beware.
It may be yourself you find standing there.
Written for:"Invalid Item"
Won 1st place in round 14--prompt:monsters