Nights on Spice Island #1.3
Updated: Sep 11
In the basement, I find -
not a ghost, but a potato.
In the attic, it lingers, wailing -
a patient wind.
To claim that they're coming for me
places me in the gaze of the paper whites
and applies on my cloak a red "N."
For neither shadows, nor ghouls,
neither demon, nor witch,
leers in the dark corners of my house, my mind.
Frights have better offers than to darken my door -
and I can find my own way to hell.