Just a Minute Too Late
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before
—Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven
Just a Minute Too Late
Those inky shadows, follow me,
cleverly devised in the corners
of my inhabitation, without
an invitation. They invest their
horrorfest, sinking into the midnight
hour, draining the color, blinding
the truth, bespeaking of consequences
of staying up just a minute too late.
Is it too late to make a run for it
or will the wall to wall rug,
be pulled out from under, revealing
the form of something alien,
one which my mind can’t fathom,
a phantom, miasmic apparition,
a trick, a trap, a rapparee of Poe?
A human silhouette, a living doll, a dark screen,
abominable creaks and “hoo”s, flickering
bulbs, a hidden troll…
More light, bright enough
to raise the dead, until
the catacomb-storm deadens the source
where you stand, or sit…don’t blink…
you’ve fallen asleep…again and again
waking up with a start,
then to a voice from an unrecognizable throat,
perhaps, the house speaks all by itself.
Silly me, I wake up. The rug’s been rolled back
in place. Only birds tweet, but nonetheless
that relentless silhouette’s still on the wall,
playing it straight…deceptively so.
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