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