The Book

The Book

Gossamer fingers of moonrise
stifle my yawing shadow.
Midnight approaches;
Morpheus has failed in his rounds once more.

The necrotic poisons of living
pool in my body,
yet, my mind is untouched;
thoughts continue to spin like rats on a wheel.

Sighing, I pick up the book
that lies by my bedside.
Diversion. Perhaps.
The wan visage of Poe
stares in invitation: Enter ... if you dare.

Black ink on white pages;
a dark tarnish of words
that stains my imagination.
I chafe from the manacles of images
trapping me in a world of
the bizarre, the arcane, madness.

"... suddenly there came a tapping,"
I start, the words reverberating
as I stare at the window,
tingling with fear's opium.
The raven-winged wind laughs at me,
fluttering branches on my window.

With a shudder, I break free -
free of the dark spell of his timeless invocations,
of the hellish visions that have enthralled.
I slam the book down.
Only wet handprints, signatures, bear witness.

I turn off the light but the words still illuminate
drowning out the moon's feeble glow.

Enough!
I gingerly push the book.
I watch it plummet into an open drawer.
Out of sight ...
I relax as I am released
to spiral downward into night's abyss.

As the petit mort of sleep
darkens my consciousness
a fragment of sound,
a fading echo of retreating life whispers:
... but not out of mind.

An entry for the Round 59 of "Shadows and Light Poetry Contest" 
Prompt: Open
Maximum Line Count: 40
Line Count: 40
Form: Free Verse

petit mort ~ little death