Treasure Island

Stan Petrovich

(10/27/1950 / Fort Riley, KS)

Admixture in October


The burymen sit smokng and contemplating
Their new dig. It is a musty morning fog
They rest in. Then as they dig
They hit a hard hand, with curling nails twitching crust.
It is the Beast.
The creature now stands up through the tenuous dirt
And coughs a laugh at them.
No man, I am. I am no man. Its one eye spreads,
Spouting obscenities: he is Polyblasphemus.
The arms entangle the two and rife with horror
Tears them to shreds. Blood flies across the tired moor.
It is All Hollow's Eve. The fortelling was true.
What are gravedigers to do tonight,
Except call in with a vicious cough of their own?

Submitted: Friday, December 14, 2012
Edited: Friday, December 14, 2012
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

This was my annual halloween poem that I did not get a chance to post.

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