Pete's poems from the night.

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Lord of the flies.

Gruesomely howls the wind
As a ghastly Gregorian chant,
Upon a window pane flailing
Tree branches rap discordant

Manic shadows dance to a din
Eerily about a moonlit wall
As the door warps and groans
Seemingly soon to buckle.

Alone in bed with knees drawn up
Arms wrapped round for comfort
Desperate eyes search the room
For escape from this horror

With a suddenness all is still
Slowly the door creaks open
In the dark a figure framed
Enters calmly, sweeping in.

Into a pillow sinking further
All hope is gradually undone
As a whispering voice imparts
Nowhere to run little one.

Tips of a clawed hand glint
With a swift and silent strike
Inhaled is her scream of pain
The bouquet of fear is drug like

From the doorway a deep drone
As an intense darkness moves
Separating into countless flies
Swarming into the bedroom.

Fearfully wiping them from wounds
Though replaced they are instantly
Sobbing with the futility
She is finished with all that is worldly.

Now without wherewithalto repel
New wounds are exposed to feed
Disappeared under a seething mass
Her outline shrinks, her inner consumed

Left are the bones to collect
For in mortality they defy
Such totems are required
When you are Lord of the flies.


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Lord of the flies.