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