Knocking outside
on the door.
Inside—
on the knees.
The visitor, an empty
aching hollow shell—
His fog of breath wafting.
Her fingers clatter.
She had left him at last.
Blood drips
in the corridor—
Her knife is now useless.
~~David
Line count: 12 lines
Form: Free verse
Prompt: For tomorrow, write a story or poem about not a fairy or child wanting candy, but the departed soul of someone the protagonist knows, arriving at the front door, a soul who demands appeasement in the form of righting some wrong done to or by them in their former, mortal life.
Written for: The Writer's Cramp
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