Taking a break from political poems, this verse is Hallowe'en themed.
November is Lurking
November is lurking, just one night remains,
a deep ferrous odour pervades.
The flickering, nacreous light barely shows
what was lurking, it further degrades.
It might be it’s gone and returned to its lair,
the silence suggests solitude,
but maybe it’s waiting for prey to approach –
a typical trait of its brood.
The floor, it feels sticky, suggesting it’s fed;
it could be it’s sated, who knows?
Your foot catches something, revealed as a head
only briefly – then all the light goes.
There, in the darkness, dead lamp in your hand,
staying still, hoping eyes will adjust.
And still, there’s no sound – you don’t know if it’s there,
And still there’s that deep smell of rust.
A thought comes, insidious, feelings of doubt,
Was it wise on this All Hallow’s Eve
to venture where others have gone and been lost –
or so we’ve been led to believe?
Deciding to leave you begin to back out.
Without warning sharp claws hold you tight.
A mouth dripping mucus rasps into your ear,
“My name is November. Goodnight.”
