A Wicked Fey Grins

The iron door,
rusted and old,
is locked tightly.
Behind, lay the void.

A clasp of cold
iron, the lock,
binds the horror,
rightly, in the dark.

Its little friend,
a wicked fey, grins
as his wicked
merriment begins.

Left of the door,
short-framed,
closer to the floor,
the wicked fey’s
wicket
creaks again.


© CGT, 2018.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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