Thursday, October 19, 2017



The thin silvery blade
thrust brutally into me,
piercing flesh and sinew,
and I mounted the stone steps
with a great and heavy despair,
heaving, clawing,
depositing a warm, crimson trail in my wake…

Above me, my world,
my sanctuary;
beneath me, his looming, hideous form,
that sniggering, taunting laugh,
that grim, ghastly voice intoning:
“Dead before you reach the top,
dead before you reach the top,
dead before you reach the top.”

Presently I became enveloped by a pervasive, all-consuming
and it weakened me;
and my eyes faltered;
and, as the steps took me, a vague, distorted image:
my left hand, its feeble digits
against cold, damp stone…

This—this—was my end;
this night,
this place,
and his laugh—it tore through me yet again
as the void gently, inexorably,
stole all that I was,
all I ever was,
all I ever would be.

(Poetry and photography © 2017 by Jim Vines)

Psst. Like a good Hollywood story?

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