… held my demons.

By J. K. McDowell

April 2011

The scream wakes Howard from Her secret nightmare and

He begins writing.  Despite the material,

I’m not that productive, some devouring is too close.

A poet has a delicate edge of awareness

That cuts without drawing blood.  This provides less

Attraction to the dark creatures lurking nearby.

Unreadable marble headstones, weathered

Markers of the dead.  Carter, hand me the torch.

We have found the lost cemetery of my dreams.

Your letters could not fully describe the evening

Of terrors gone from memory.  These tracings of

Signs and symbols are puzzle pieces forged from forgetfulness.

James, you do not have to explain why sometimes

The moonlight scribbling lasts on into breakfast.

Each closed letter hosts an inner darkness.

Not just phantasms on the page.  There, in the wine

Cellar, ancient chains of exotic metals that show

No signs of decay.  They once held my demons.

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