The Thing

The sounds I hear, so far yet near. Could never stir my sleep.
Until the night, overcome with fright. I saw the thing creep.
It slowly slithered, dry and withered. Moving like a snake.
Standing there, I could only stare. My chest began to quake.

My eyes were dried although they tried. I could not cry or plea.
Putrid wind, against my skin. The thing was next to me.
As it reached, I tried to think. My mind was clear as mud.
It's hand was heavy, not quite steady. Falling with a thud.

I could smell, the bowels of hell. Which made me twist and turn.
The thing was fair, it did not care. Whose soul it came to burn.
My fear ran deep, if souls could weep I would have surely drowned.
It’s touch was old, my voice grew cold. Screaming without a sound.

The darkness looms as the death weed blooms. A murky color red.
My eyes blast open, the silence broken. The thing is on my bed.

By Reginald Span