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 Tamara Beryl Latham - The Poet

The Moon Thing

In the black of dreary night,
on an eerie mountain top,
through his clouded one-eyed sight,
did he see the moon thing drop?

Like lightning from a bloody sky
it kissed the earth with one foul splat,
then it stood upright with a sigh
and walked off like an alley cat.

With horns protruding from its head
it turned, approached him on all three.
Was it alive or walking dead?
This thing shrouded in mystery.

Its wounds exposed the blood and gore,
like mangled veins, within its chest.
It shrieked and grunted, then it roared,
while he begged God one last request.

The moon thing jumped or did it leap, 
as his heart began to pound?
He dared not voice even a peep,
not one resemblance of a sound.

The moon thing spewed a sickly bile,
as its eyes flashed carmine red
and then it split itself in two;
a clone, a second walking dead.

Then suddenly they jumped at him,
their stance in ready for attack.
He felt them gnawing at his ears,
then his stomach, nose and back.

While blood was oozing down his tongue,
a metamorphosis took place.
The two moon things changed into one,
and then it leaped back into space.

He lay a pulp of blood and guts
and barely moved, as strength he lacked.
With one last breath his eyes closed shut,
while all the world faded to black.

To all who read: some choice advice,
especially those with clouded sight.
Do not seek the mountain high!
The moon thing lives, but you may die.



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