Oh! so you are the artist,
sneers the mantel of green.
With clasped arms mock-praying,
dance of the mantis back and forth.
Back and forth, to and fro,
the violet-purple lichen growing on the bark,
wearing the coat of dark, of the fright,
mossy, scratchy touch of the night.
You were going for the neo-gothic effect I see,
of rooms shrouded in black,
sea of darkness, words of a flack,
of the writer struggling to get off the bed,
smothered in covers, of cloth and time.
Ghosts whisper in ink,
monsters slithering through the chink,
of imagination and boredom,
child’s foolish courage is cute.
Let them come, I will fight,
I am so little, will they really bite?
More than the spook of the mute
dark, unblinking bored night
it laughs in coldness,
thinking to itself, why’d I waste monsters on you?
my dear artist, music inside has curled up and dried.
my monsters and ghouls cannot scare you
your enemy is the worst
you are lost in yourself, with no purpose
you’ve given up hope, how can I frigten you
with creatures of yore?
child’s mock courage is indeed beautiful
it relies on hope, and a thought for freedom
says the night to the artist
you , its you who scares me with your inability to be scared
you care naught for yourself, that is the final dread.
