Words would see the darkness.
Yet anything screams.
Anything of him but years.
As they enter they choose below thought,
Appearing against resounding, weaving feet.
The demon alone, it knew his back.
Dropped brow and shrill roar..
White, its bones.
Thin, the limbs.
A fanged beast, bones in its back.
Both hands sobbing.
She dropped the head in the whispered sun.
It’s the tiny jiggle it started,
Somewhere in the recesses of her brain.
Arms to staircase,
Command continuing and serene,
She delicately proceeded.
Her silverback familiar, slightly gray-blue,
Mysterious, even to himself.
Eyes found him pleasantly.
Walking, she answered a thought;
“I thought I’d save you.”
To much in her, she wondered,
“Have I walked time enough?”
And the empty streets of her quiet eventually accept this:
Your little ways.
At one with dark as she was with It,
The best threat,
Its carrying need.
She had demons off combating her weaknesses.
Exorcists quietly gave her study,
Their fates yet decided.
Poetry "Grotesque No. 1" Copyright © T.A. Miles
Derivation "Grotesque No. 1" by T. A. Miles