Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

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Under the lamp I sit,

Sitting in the darkness,

Thinking of the why.

Under the lamp I sit.

The snowflakes in

Winter sunset looming

Under the horizon,

Shading over, blooming

Begins to cease, lit

Fireplace in my

Humble cottage, bit of

Warmth now warms. Air of

Humble cottage, darkens.

Coldness shivers my

Skin and bones to touch...

It crawls on my thin skin.

I once was great yet small, growing quickly

Up until I reached age eight, now I'm porkly

As I rest in my chair thinking, heatedly.

Perhaps one day I'll see the sun again.

But only if I remain fit, no crowning grin.

Perhaps but not with utmost certainty, grin

For the skeleton in his closet, waiting

To clasp his bony fingers on my throat, gripping

Until it can grip not more, as I am falling

Down to a floor chilling my skin, shivering

Down to my very core, upon this chilling floor

Growing quickly tired of this cynical

World, my psyche becomes so clinical.

Coldness shivers my

Skin and bones to touch...

It crawls on my thin skin.

Under the lamp I sit,

Sitting in the darkness,

Thinking of the why.

Under the lamp I sit.

The skeleton laughs its...

Final laugh.@@