Because Life is Bittersweet

Almost Home

*This poem was written for a dark poetry contest*

The shadows,

Which acted as a shield, would betray her.

Deceive her into thinking the small hours safe.

This was not the case.

Thin veils of darkness;

Stretching,

Clawing their way toward her ankles,

Kept he who pursued her from sight.

In harmony with her footfalls,

His made no bid for sound.

Keeping her in an insincere calm,

Heightening his tension.

The silence, like a curtain pulling back,

Preparing the audience,

(The pursuer)

For the picture show.

Still closer now, he drew.

The street lamps above, a falsehood.

She was not within their glow

She was beneath the lights.

So far down; it seemed,

Farther still to go.

The pursuer would guide her into the depth,

Would dig the hole himself.

Her home; not close enough to touch,

Yet close enough to feel.

Was cruel as she bathed in its warmth.

As though she might touch the door,

It baited her in more.

The pursuer,

Who'd at last come apon the backdrop,

Looked to the shadows, heard not a sound.

Here by the house, that stood on the ground,

Where his soul had been twisted, already warped.

Stretching for her throat,

She who'd been deceived,

She who'd been betrayed.

Spun toward his face.

He saw not the girl he followed.

He saw she who'd deformed him.

The knife pierced into her who'd turned him cold.

Not the body he did hold.

Washed clean in satisfaction,

He dances with the sanity,

That always follows in the wake,

Of killing her again.

The pursuer walks away.

The shadows cheer him on.

The light pulls back in fear.

The girl, was almost home