It has become familiar
You feel it through the mattress – a tremor
and the way it
lurches toward you in a fall
Do you fear the Death Demon
who relishes the taste of living skin
One Nordic tribe’s sacred rite
preemptively cut their old ones up
Abiding beneath a cool celadon sun
another had no fear
for at the great bar piled high with eatables
the drunk dead feast
He has Mephistophelian skills
Don’t think for a moment He isn’t real!
Consider the evidence
Walking you catch yourself talking to the absent
Passing by He smirks
Whenever there’s a pause He interrupts