Submission by Andrew Schaeffer ’23
For those that fear the sleepy dark,
You’ll find that this is way more stark;
It seems that something lurks beneath,
And stalks us all with tiny teeth.
It slips upon its prey at night,
Taking each without much fight.
A patch of thorns doth coat its back,
Its stomach full for sweet hijacks.
It comes afar from distant kin,
Soon having claimed all those therein.
It hides in shroud of daily life,
And conspires for our horrid strife.
With each soul that it takes,
It grows fast from our mistakes.
And soon it grows up mountains tall,
And spreads out in a violent sprawl.
It curses each and every land,
Extending forthward death’s cold hand.
Yes, now I see it in my dreams:
The marching white horse spreading streams.
The silence builds with every day,
The children have all left their play.
It waits for all in watchful prowl,
One wrong step and you’ll turn foul.
The rotting smells of death are here,
To clench you in a fervent fear;
You’ll march out in the city streets
And beat yourself like worthless meats.
But the silent hydra with no head,
Cannot by such be stopped to spread
And take you slowly for its own
To leave you just as rotten bone.