POETRY BY TOM DUKE

Tom Duke lives in the foothills of Palomar Mountain, California, with his wonderful wife Michelle, and three critters—more if you count the ones in his dreams. His work has been published in The Horror Zine, Wyldblood Press, Sirens Call, Hiraeth Publishing, and HellBound Books’ Beautiful Tragedies 3.

A WALK IN THE MIST-FILLED WOODS

Abnormal, she thought
but beautiful
enchanting, even
ethereal
yet real as
an awakening
These woods
this night
were just beyond
her deepest dreams
She remembers her childhood hop
through the raindrops
and sees her future
floating
in the silvery mist
It is here she will rest
It is here she will lie down
and become.

CRADLE

Ancient people
once roamed these hills
I know not their origin
their kind nor lore
I know only that
except for some stones
that might be a graveyard
they are gone
The valley below
is green and speckled with
small suns masquerading
as wildflowers
They float on grassy waves
that lap the horizon
Beyond is
nothing
but blue sky
rocking the cradle
of time.

WHEN SHE SLEEPS

When she sleeps
She cries herself awake.
It’s the only way.
Dreams
Carve bloody crescents
Into the deepest part of her.
They slide in
And out like flesh
Into flesh.
Like dark tides caressing
A hidden cove they stroke
And pull
Stroke and pull.
She’s hollow here, naked
As a newborn
Freed from its sac.
She can only
Give
So much
Take
So much it
Must end it
Must.
She’s running
Out of tears.

CRAZY LEGS

You splay them—all around
Tickling silken threads
Scampering along the rails
That line your widow’s
Nest.
Hanging—above the ground
In your mortiferous weave
You dance a tangled tango
With your squirming dinner
Guest.