The Ghosts of the Bookshelf

“One more page”,
whispered the insistent night,
rubbing lecherously
against the nape of my neck.

In cocoon of light
cast by the table-lamp
sat I, reading Poe.
And yonder
could be heard the night,
munching on the words
dislodged from the pages,
driveling the vermin of fright.

In sleep,
the night had opened
the portal of my dreams.
The fumigated, dead
parasites of the bookshelf
had then scurried under my skin.

Afraid I made a pact
with the dark,
to feed it Poe
in lieu of wakefulness.
And now even
the midsummer’s light
cannot burn
the ink of that night.


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