The Interactive Poetry Pages
Gothic/Surreal - ThreeYou are invited to add your own commentary for this poem.
Poem Number 1747
Pain sticks to the underside of my skin
infects my eyes with unknowing
my answer to the message brought to me on the wind.
Banshee screams the knowing quite clearly
no mistake in what has been said.
No second guessing
banshee just screams what "is" and very soon that " IS"
Banshee is one guide
born of need to have company
while death is filling the sky above your head.
Nothing so impending as watching a blue sky go black.
Maybe it was the stories of unexplainable things
that made the door appear
so banshee could come inside the house.
The moanings make my skin grow cold.
not what I wanted to know.
Central Viewing Page.
Top Welcome Page.