On a shelf,

Sits a book,

On another,

Twin pieces.

A third,

Over there,

Corner of the eye.

Never together—

Same room—

Same days—

But never touching.

Each contains…

Nightmares.

Long stretches,

The rack of old torture,

On sanity.

Do not heed,

Warning here,

Then bugs in the ear.

Fear all that is,

Within pages,

Or in the place that we call a chest,

We might hear the pumping of iron-hot fear.

There is only death in pages,

These pages,

So, don’t open,

Don’t feel that temptation,

Don’t look underneath those long-forgotten paper stacks.

For copies of these books exist far,

And they exist near,

And they make themselves known,

By that sound in your ear.

–

Special thanks to: Melissa Potter

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