Flesh market

A poem by Raymond Moore

October 31, 2021

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The rain had left

the steps slick

and tar black

gum spotted

and gruesome

light was

few and far between

reflecting and refracting.


The witching hour

had come and gone

not one witch in sight

the Fleshmarket Close stair

a challenge for

beer soaked minds

and legs.


Halfway up

a phantasm

peripheral and eerie

soundless and shimmering

it took my breath

passing through me

a hot knife

slicing my butter heart.


At the top

I saw stars

oxygen depleted

and puffing hard

I turned to see

if the apparition

had followed

church mouse silent

I bolted.







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