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Pennywise

Until
the jack-in-the-box thunder-clap
ever pops at the inappropriate time.
Unfair, the searing pain, the shrill scream of abject terror,
dreams disintegrate in a relentless rain of tinkling glass.

Each shard becomes a razor-edged missile, surgical
in the violent hands of butchering circumstances.
There are no familiar words for this overwhelming fear.

Gulping for air as the official countdown begins,
Brutally crushed by the tyranny of urgent need.
Impossible solutions are desperate, all needed yesterday.

And finally, when the excessive bleeding staunches,
the clap sounds again louder & more demanding;
and for those who neglect to pray, terror

is their terrible food. Yet, for those who do, and
cry out, a dread reminder that we always
imagine that we're equipped.

Falsely, we suppose --guess, --think,
--we feel --presume,
until ------- the clown pops.


 
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Posted by on June 23, 2021 in Poetry

 

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