Desolate is the wasteland called my mind.
Cold and unfeeling as if it were dead.
As twisted as one can find,
Into darkness it spirals, as if led.
Bouts of turmoil and sorrow,
Grasping evermore strongly to regret.
Worries of having a tomorrow,
Anguish and pain beset.
The loneliness grows ever stronger,
Darkness I now call home.
Desire to wait any longer,
In blackness my mind roams.
Time can be an enemy,
To those who have much.
To ponder repetitively,
To actually think too much.
So into the void I slip,
Swallowed whole by pain.
My mind, my crypt,
Never again to be sane.
© Copyright By Scott L. McPherson
Writhing between bone and sinew,
succulent decay.
Putrified rotting flesh,
The worm, my companion, where I lay.
He moves to the head of the food chain,
And I, now to the rear,
All I accomplished now seems vain,
All that I thought was so dear.
Time, the precious thing that it was,
Has so quickly faded away,
The fuss, the bussle, the buzz,
None of it matters now where I lay.
To do it again, I would,
But differently it would be done,
Doing all that I could,
Making my life more fun.
To live for joy and not sorrow,
Being more gentle and kind,
Building a better tomorrow,
Bringing more piece of mind.
But here I lay in my box cold,
My way laid out so firm,
The way since days of old,
As food for the worm.
© Copyright By Scott L. McPherson
Night breaks, as a mist creeps in from the west,
It glows lightly in several shades of green.
Everyone in the little town of Willow, at rest,
So it’s enemy will never be seen.
Nestled in their beds they dream,
They don’t hear it creeping,
All is at peace, so it seems,
But death has come reaping.
The mist now seeps into every little crack,
In and under, through and around,
A silent but deadly attack,
It has covered the town.
Into each room the mist does fill,
As with some sort of purpose dark in nature,
Covering its prey as they lie still,
Taking advantage of their unprepared stature.
Lungs fill, swell and burst with a bloody spray,
Violent death throes, they choke their last breath,
The mist, in turn, takes each of it’s sleeping prey,
Each soul taken by this creeping death.
Sweet dreams, now gone, the town now still.
The mist recedes into the hills, whence it came,
There it will wait silently for it’s next kill,
At such time, it’ll creep down to do the same.
So when passing near the little, now vacant, town of Willow,
Look around and listen, take special care.
Pay attention to which way the wind does blow.
Because the mist is still out there, somewhere.
© Copyright By Scott L. McPherson
With its eyes narrowed and nostrils flared,
It lifted its head to take in the scent,
Across the road, into windows it stared,
Then quietly across the road, it went.
It was covered with fur,
From its head to its paws,
Of the color white, so pure,
And had large teeth in its jaws.
Like a wolf it was,
But stood like a man,
Hands with sharp claws,
Quickly it ran.
Its need for food had driven it here,
Hunger making its stomach growl,
It, for man, had no known fear,
So it continued its deathly prowl.
It came upon a dog on a chain,
Without hesitation, it did attack,
The dog made a short yelp of pain,
As it became the creatures little snack.
A woman came out the door,
She had heard her dog cry,
Not satisfied, he wanted more,
So now it was her turn to die.
From groin to sternum she was split,
From one thrust of its claws,
Into her warm body it bit,
With its powerful vise-like jaws.
She hadn’t time to scream,
His attack was so quick,
On the ground her blood steamed,
So warm, red, and thick.
Her corpse, it did ravage,
Stripping flesh from its bone,
A feeding frenzy so savage,
From a beast as cold as stone.
It howled, with its head lifted high,
Its meal was over and done,
With a full moon still in the sky,
Off into the shadows, it did run.
The crackling of brush faded away, Peace once more, came to the neighborhood,
But the remnants on the ground, still lay,
The werewolf gone, but not for good.
© Copyright By Scott L. McPherson
