Inspired by the works of Alfred Kubin

It rarely stands upright

Comes day, noon, or night

It peeks over the hills

Scattering children and whip-poor-wills

From miles away, we see it fine

Hunched shoulders, darkened eyes

On all fours it lurches over farms

Two things that are not legs, two that are not arms

I’ve looked into its face overhead like the moon

One warm night when it came for us in June

Its form shielded our village from the sky

Flame the only light as we let out a cry

It searched through inns

It searched through homes

We smelled its skin

We heard its bones

Fools raised torches, ready to strike

It took them—man, woman, child alike

Squeeze, snap, rip, its quiet

I can’t help them, don’t even try it

There’s a hole atop its head

In go the dead

I’ve seen it before

The darkened bore

As it crawled away one night

When I was young, still thinking I’d fight

No teeth, no flesh, nothing

No sounds of rending or crushing

Just a yawning abyss

Parting matted hair

No roar, no hiss

Just still, foul-smelling air

As it came, so the thing lumbers away

Is it full? Satisfied? Fearful? Dismayed?

Over the hill, it’s gone, the sky’s light has returned

And the village gets to cleaning, faces upturned

But one night, fore dawn

I’ll awake in my place

The roof will be gone

Replaced by its face

It will lift me up from where I lay

Bring me to the hole atop its head

But dear God, I only pray

When it drops me in, I’m already dead