Thursday, December 1, 2011

timor mortis: it's in the wee hours

by peter greene

illustrations by rhoda penmarq

timor mortis: it's in the wee hours

it's in the wee hours
that you can see the
nothing, that
far too small door
that we all have
to go through ; also,  that's
my nanomechanical
tiny toy swordsmen

defeated the ants! Charged
by the sunlight, they'd
my bed, eyes
glowing yellow pink amethyst blue
in the darkness, claymores
and lead longswords
held ready.
Then! When the brutes advanced , they

swung  into action,  chopping
some   heads and
shearing  many limbs; the  fearful

      as one of them was dragged  away
      into the hive was echoed by  shouts  of
woe  and  i

                 awoke ,    turned  on   the lamp -too
  late , their
             charge  had   gone  and  they stood  silent,
         hair   long  and proud  in  Eastern
             braid  and    Northern
                                            ragtail -all

            dull  with  fighting , their
                   grey toy surfaces   and
                    their great and tiny swords - one
           missing, but O!
                           last  night
                                     they  slew  a  horde. the
                    in the morning
                                      of course

                                               had been
             dragged away by
                           ant - crews
                         and    by
                                 ghoulish   little  beasts of prey - 
                    survivors   eaten  ,one  way  or the other - only
                               nicks  scratches  and  a  certain
                              look    in    blank metal  eyes - only  those
          remain                                                     those,  and a couple of
                                                                                        lone  legs.

©Peter A. Greene 2011.


Dan Leo said...

Or, as Frank would say:

Peter Greene said...

Ah, Old Water-Melon Head. How he doth croongle. Eagh. It's like he's rubbing his hands on the table, very slowly. A nice voice and all, but creepier than Mr. Rogers on crack.