clcouch123

(x = space)

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Walking in Beauty, Like the Night

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A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

—Byron

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The only place I live

Ironically

Is in the clock

(absurdly called the grandfather),

A prisoner

Of time

And time

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There’s a dark space

Behind the weights,

Behind an ornate board

In fact, taller than I

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I listen to the clock

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I hear its beat,

Its announcements

Count the hours along

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I got good at guessing

When it’s dark

Outside,

The dark of night and mortal people

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So I might slide

As if it were amusement

Into the room night,

Of shapes and shadows,

Followed by another room

And then another

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Accommodations for

Ghosts among the living

In a place

Where both reside,

Divided places aren’t worked out

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When light touches me, I burn

And if it weren’t an issue

For the gossamer of tissue,

I would burn for shame

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Life was love

Attended

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I thought I’d be released,

But immorality

So far has judged me

Here

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Where I must hide

In filminess

And flimsiness

Inside the dark

Of this dark place

By day

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C L Couch

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This work is in response to a prompt for horror writing from Katie Metcalf who writes supernally about the dark and winter and folklore and endurance.  Here is the link for you to try at your own magickal delight:

https://wyrdwordsandeffigies.wordpress.com/2021/01/30/writing-in-the-dark-horror-writing-prompts/

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Photo by Matthew T Rader on Unsplash

Terrell, TX, USA

An old blue creepy haunted house | Please check out my blog at: matthewtrader.com/unsplash

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