SCREECH: A Horror Poetry Collection

The Sketcher's Muse

Frigid wind nibbles his fingers

as he furiously sculpts her face with graphite.

Gray stains engrained upon his left hand.

Eyes grateful to the glimpses of golden moon.

An instinctual scream to scrabble from the concrete slab

resounds,

beseeching the heat of his bedroom radiator.

But he is an alleyway shadow.

The nocturnal air pulsing

through his plaque-riddled arteries.

And she is spinning in the glow of her room.

Brunette strands bouncing off her collarbones.

A pleated pale yellow tank top adorning

her soft

mortal

body.

Yes, he sighs,

exhaling a frosty plume.

This is a good first draft.