I write these words at 3.00 a.m.
From a small room on the second floor
A worn-down lead point glides across
The threadbare paper
I can hear hatred looming
In the corridor
Of death just below me
It is stalking me
And waiting for me
To make a sound
I can see a shadow
Crawling upon the black and gold
Wallpaper
It wants me to give it a reason
A reason to kill me
A reason to justify its hatred
It is trying to stamp out creation
The miracle of genius
It is cunning and sneaky
Like a fox
Waiting in the shadow of defiance
Then without warning
There is a stillness
Against the sound of a ticking
Grandfather clock in the foyer
Then a creak in the old wooden floor
I know he is there waiting
With the stillness of a cat
Then more silence
Until a flicker of light
Flash through the old house
Then darkness
And it is over
And I say under my breath
As I lean back on my bed
With these writings in my hand
Goodnight father
Until tomorrow at
3.00 a.m.
Killer of creation.
- Ken Riccio original poems ©
