Poems: volume 2

THE BLACK HAND

The  black hand creeps towards me,
I can see its claws.
The black hand crawls towards me,
hungry for more.
The black hand creeps towards me,
bearing its sharp talons.
The black hand crawls towards me,
ready to seize my very life force.

THE ORPHAN IN THE MIST

I was waiting at the station,
staring through the mist.
The train was late but I was patient,
when I saw the boy who was bliss.
He was wearing rag-tag clothes,
and with hair as black as ash.
He was only pale skin and bones,
and his hair and skin so did clash!
The more I’d stare at him,
the more he’d disappear.
That moment was extremely grim,
when he was completely clear.
I could see him no longer,
he had vanished from my sight.
My fear was growing stronger,
I was read to run or fight . . .

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