Rough as manilla hemp
knotted against the wind,
hands rub stubble-ridden
jowls, that gloat.

Grime coated tongue
of whisky and pipe
tobacco, licks away
at fly ridden carcasses
exuding the
stench of death.

A rustle here;
slithering over there,
air rushed through
cornfield nostrils;
coming to get him.
Soft and ripe for
your loathsome
underworld habitat.

You are real
to him; there!
Where? within his
sightless mind,
he senses you stalking.

Thrashes against
piles of earth,
weighted, legs kick
in vain defence.

Hot sweat mats
chestnut hair against
his forehead. It
trickles into his
ear, blood curdling
scream awakes
the dead.

He hears the
voice of reality,
trusting to its
timbre of love.
“It’s ok son, I’m
here, it’s just
another nightmare”
A cool towel
absorbs his fears,
but not mine.

T
2008/6/22