The Blank-Faced Man
The blank-faced man came to call last night, and sat by the bed in my chair. His intent seemed not to be fright, and when I awoke he tousled my hair. He had no key, so I was surprised, but I didn’t know how to speak as he sat there with watery blue eyes and face so long and bleak. Fist resting on chin and elbow on knee he perched there without a word, but I feared what his mission might be, like Poe’s raven, that ominous bird. After awhile he arose and turned and left without revealing his scheme, and in me remained the question that burned, was he Devil, Death, or a dream?
Rhyming
Dream work
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Jaybird
I am retired, having worked primarily as a librarian, but have done freelance proofreading, copy editing, and book reviewing. I wrote some poetry many years ago, but decided it was bad and stopped, since I had other things to do. For the last ten...
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