Rigor Mortis

Tristan Robert Lange

The shape looms in the shadows
As the brittle branches of trees
Creek in the cool, shrill autumn air.
It's jaundice eyes pierce the night.

There is a certain menacing feel
To the glaring stare of the hulk
That leaves one's skin crawling
And one's body in rigor mortis.

The paralysis, much anticipated,
Leaves one completely stunned
Allowing for the the dark form
To lurk forward toward its prey.

Taking advantage of kindness,
Absorbing every ounce of pity,
The monster seizes its victim,
Feeding its lust for the living.

Like a feline that's been fed,
The shape returns to get more
Of the same from the unwary
Who leave their hearts open.

Each new victim falls for it,
For the damaged soul's cry,
Which precedes the rabid bite
That seals their doomed fate.

The violation of all that's pure,
The mark of the shadowy ghoul,
Is the ultimate blasphemous sign
That can't be erased or undone.

Necrosis besieges the arteries
Of the open heart that bleeds.
The seeping venom of the hydra
Quickens the approach of death.

  • Author: Tristan Robert Lange (Offline Offline)
  • Published: August 4th, 2017 20:55
  • Comment from author about the poem: Predators suck.
  • Category: Gothic
  • Views: 103
  • User favorite of this poem: Anonymous18.
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