LET SLEEPING PTERODACTYLS LIE

rusted scythe
perched on a nail
high up on a wall

a sleeping pterodactyl
I can't stop myself touching
it to see if it is - real

smacks its lips
laps up my blood
from my foolish fingertip

deceived by shadows
it's grin glinting
the smile come alive

the ghost of a horse
whinnies in the stable
that's gone long gone

the then
merging into
the now

or maybe
Mr. Death
too tired to go on

hangs up
the instrument of his trade
time to retire the old bones

“No way
to make a living!”
I hear him say

I back slowly away
blinded by the sunlight
that screams. . ."Run!"