Hauntings

Dark poem to honor Writing.com’s celebration of the horror genre

Ripped apart,
anything that is a thing
leaves us,
and they shove our leftovers in
underground passages
where time cannot go.
But,
like hermit crabs without shells,
we hobble back
into large-sized clay people
who fill their pockets with
stones that glare in the dark,
stones like sorrow, a chilling chaos,
stones like pain, a slow fire
that roasts and shrivels
your insides.
Next, we tattoo you with blood,
inject you with malice,
and make you cup your skull
with your own hands
to drink your own venom; so,
afterwards, you loot your own heart,
you reach in to break yourself
of your monster-haunted mortal mud,
and you burn your bowels,
to cleanse yourself with fire
for words to leap out of you
to escort you to life
as an outcast
decaying in sunlight.