Fearsome Streets

[Bhurin]

Just wanted to repost this here, just so that I know it's been through these halls. (I'm personally fond of this piece).

 

Enjoy.

 

Fearsome Streets

 

As I stare into the dark,

Like a powerful monarch,

My eyes piercing, like a shark,

Scanning the endless evening gloom.

 

I pause for just a moment,

Not seeking an opponent,

Or to rustle what is dormant,

Deep within the haunting doom.

 

So then I look no deeper,

For I might just glance the Reaper,

And I don’t need some street sweeper,

To make off with my watch or cane.

 

So then I swallow, and I cough,

And with my footsteps extra soft,

I begin to quickly take off,

Back down the route I came.

 

But then I hear a sound,

And I quickly whirl around,

As my heart begins to pound,

And my breath is held in fright.

 

My eyes dart to walls and doors,

And with results same as before,

I see darkness, nothing more,

At this ungodly hour of the night.

 

So then I shake my head and laugh,

For I’ve dealt with worse riff-raff,

And now, ignoring the cold draft,

I continue on my way.

 

As I walk down the dark road,

Convinced I heard a cat or toad,

(All these thoughts a burdening load)

“This place must look better during the day.”

 

But then I hear the screech of Death,

I jump, then gasp, and hold my breath,

For it’s loud enough to wake Macbeth,

Like a tribe of screaming Apache.

 

Something flutters past my head,

And, when I realize that I’m not dead,

I look up, to see eyes of red,

“’Tis a mere bat, not a banshee.”

 

“Only a creature of the night,

Out on an evening lunar flight,

With a bark worse than is bite.”

I nod to myself, and smile.

 

But then it drops down from the sky,

Lands, and gives me an evil-eye,

As if it thought it were smarter than I,

And the thought makes my skin rile.

 

So I glance up, quick and brief,

It’s as still as a dead leaf,

And its gaze fills me with grief,

As if I were its prey.

 

“If so much interest to you I bring,

May I comment on just one thing?

Well, your voice was never meant to sing.

That’s all I wanted to say.”

 

But no retort do I receive.

No snake tongued words, meant to deceive,

But as I turn, about to leave,

I look up, and the bat is gone.

 

As fear begins to clutch my throat,

I quickly clasp and close my coat.

And plainly, as if said or wrote,

I knew something was terribly wrong.

 

I became exasperated,

At what seemed was planned and fated,

As if somehow it plainly stated,

That, “You are going to die.”

 

I began to hurry down the street,

As if something possessed my feet,

Starting to sweat from the cold heat,

“I only imagined it,” I lied.

 

My steps rapping against the stone,

And with the thought that I’m here, alone,

Chills me right down to the bone,

And shiver as I sweat.

 

Then I stop to calm my breathing,

My head is spinning, like I’m dreaming,

My heart pounds as I am seething,

“How much worse can all this get?”

 

My thoughts are swarming, like a riot.

I stop to listen, but it’s quiet.

All this silence, I don’t buy it,

My eyes narrow, and I frown.

 

I clutch my cane now, very tight,

Prepared to defend my self or fight,

For I’ll fear nothing more tonight!

Within this darkness I’ll not drown.

 

But suddenly I hear a howl,

That’s so wretched, and so foul,

That my face losses its scowl,

And I drop my cane, than flee.

 

As I run, I bite my lip,

My legs burn, as if they’ll rip.

But then I stumble, and I trip,

And I scrape my hands and knees.

 

As I slowly rise back to my feet,

My hands bleed as my heart beats,

But I will not accept defeat.

I brush myself off, and press on.

 

But my battered legs are sore,

And I cannot run a sole step more,

Because my skin has ripped and tore,

And the cuts run deep and long.

 

I rub the blood off, on my shirt,

But this presses in the dirt,

Causing my hands to throb and hurt.

The sight makes my head light.

 

Now I reach the long block’s end,

My scattered thoughts begin to mend;

For I find a trusted friend.

Lines of lamp lights, shining bright.

 

Now my heart begins to calm,

As I slowly walk, and clutch my palm.

“I must treat this with healing balm,”

My words are confident and strong.

 

But as I pass each dark, closed door,

(With none of them I’ve seen before)

I begin to wonder more and more,

If I could possibly be wrong.

 

I begin to scour for a sign,

That one of these winding streets are mine,

A simple street post would be fine,

I only long to get back home.

 

But then I hear a distant tapping,

That wakes my troubled mind from napping,

As if scampering feet were scampering,

Against the cold cobblestone.

 

Once again I gasp in fear,

As the sound draws close and near.

But without a single sob or tear,

I ignore it, and press on.

 

As fog rolls in, so thick and dense,

I swear I’d pay any pound or pence,

If only I could find my fence,

And gate, and house, and lawn.

 

Then, adding to my frightful toil,

I bump into something, and recoil.

But I find then it’s a stone gargoyle,

And that, in fact, its mine!

 

I suddenly begin to cheer,

So all the whole city could hear,

Because I lost my frights and fears,

And that suited me just fine.

 

And so I quickly rush inside,

Laughing for thinking I might have died.

I burst the front door open wide,

And standing there, is my wife.

 

“Where have you been? What did you do?

It’s almost a quarter and a half past two!

I was worried about what happened to you!”

Shrieked my greatest love in life.

 

“I got lost!” I almost cried,

“I feared for my life, I almost died!

I thought of you.” I quickly lied,

“And got blood on my good silk.”

 

“Oh my gosh honey! Oh no!

I should never have let you go.

But… there’s just one thing I’d like to know…

Where exactly, is the milk?”

 

 

 

 

Signed-

[Guest Foe Calibur]

A wonderfuly sardonic poem. He just never gets a break...

 

I suppose it's human nature to fear the unknown... or the unseen.

 

I like it alot Bhurin, keep it up

[Tralla]

It's not the same style, really, but this poem really reminds me of Poe's The Raven. With a far more amusing ending, of course. Good writing!

 

[Peredhil]

Peredhil looks dubiously at the poem.

 

I-it's very LONG.

 

Grimly he digs in, and find an unexpected pleasure in the meter, like finding a four-step in a waltz tempo.

 

Reading on, he begins to smile, then gasps at the bloody image. Clutching his heart to his chest, he urges on the man with the cane past the omens of doom.

 

Not lost! he cries, knowing too well the feeling, only to finally arrive with relief at the door.

 

Doh! Not the MILK!

 

Turning to a near neighbor, he stammers urgently,

 

Got milk?