Monday, April 15, 2013

V. 2, #18: April 14, 2013

The color of the sky was odd that night--
a yellow glow sat on the eastern cloud
that covered Pliney Mountain like a shroud.
It wasn't natural. It wasn't right.

Jim Thompson's dog would not step foot outside.
It cowered in its corner, whined, and shook.
Melinda read a page from her Good Book;
Her sleeping newborn, Blake, woke up and cried.

Then suddenly, a preternatural gloom
flooded the sky, and everything went dark
Jim ran to get his gun, Melinda screamed
I, driven perhaps by some internal spark,
ran almost in slow-motion, like a dream,
and found the horror waiting in Blake's room.


1 comment:

Scott said...

Somehow this one got saved as draft, rather than published yesterday. But it was the Sunday sonnet, despite its "official" publication date. :P