THE BEAST

THE BEAST

The beast comes lumbering to my door,
Breathing heavily, grunting loudly.

With his horn he tears a gaping hole in the wood,
The sawdust scatters on the morning wind.

The muscles they tighten and slow to a crawl
And Death brings his warm woolen shawl
To wrap around my shoulders.

The beast comes lumbering to my door,
The world is growing colder.

The beast comes uninvited, and makes himself at home,

With his horn he stands in firm control,
Probing each room of my unsuspecting soul.

A tyrant in training, he swallows me whole,
My life a broken vase of bitter black roses
Rotting on the basement steps.

The beast is unrelenting, he will destroy me yet.

The beast wears me down in relentless combat,
Dresses me in the dregs of depression and fatigue.

Hiding in the background, he mounts a keen offensive,
A timeless reign of terror, a swift and sudden blitzkrieg.

I cry for the dreams that strike hollow on the floor.
The tears come in torrents, like Noah’s great flood.

I weep for my wounds that lay open and oozing,
Slathered in sorrow, layered in blood.

-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED