SCREECH: A Horror Poetry Collection

Irrational Irene

I'm afraid of leaves.

It's irrational,

I know,

believe me.

It's not their texture,

infiltration of creepy crawlies,

or fear of falling in a pile

of infectious moldy disease.

They just follow me,

you see.

When the frigid air shakes their freaky

bodies from the limbs of the trees,

they congregate in concrete piles,

and gather in grassy masses,

as far as the eye can see.

That's all fine and dandy,

that part doesn't bother me.

It's the crinkle of one's crusty remains,

trailing behind my feet

on an isolated sidewalk or

dimly lit asphalt road

on an evening with no breeze.

It tumbles tip to tip,

a rumble reminiscent of shambling sneakers.

An invisible energy forever half-a-block away.

All the other jumbles of decaying greens completely serene.

On windy days it gives itself away,

the stillest on the street

as its crumbling comrades

whip around feverishly.

It awaits ever patiently,

to torment me.

You would think at home,

I might find my reprieve.

But they cross the borders of my doors,

so effortlessly.

Single, crispy corpses

hiding in rooms,

and I shriek when I see

another withered, crunchy leaf

flipping down my hallway freely.