Monkey 2

Somewhere far away, in some distant tree crouches a monkey, waiting patiently. Black, faceless, hooded, he watches; when the time is right he’ll come for me. On his back is a pack labelled VICTIMS, inside which are several jars: Inside them a black, foul smelling liquid, an antidote to soul and to heart. My name is on one and when his search is done he’ll tilt my head back and stare; No warm sip of brandy for me, No breath of fresh alpine air: I’ll swallow the blackness, shudder and moan And slide into catatonic despair.