O thou sly and subtle shadoow
That lingers where the moonlight fades,
Beneath the oaken frame of rest,
Where innocence doth seek its nest—
To find the nest full of cuckoos, but the shadow never named,
The whisper children have proclaimed,
Though elders scoff with rational scorn:
“Such phantasms were never born!”
(They were not born. They were made.
That’s why, of the, I am afraid.
Yet lo, in the gloaming hour, when clocks
Tick-tock their solemn, leaden knocks,
And parents’ footsteps fade afar,
The wee ones huddle, hearts ajar.
For thou, dread wight of dust and dream,
Dost coil in realms where starlight gleams
No more—’mid lint and forgotten toys,
A realm of half-remembered joys
Turned to terrors, sly and sweet,
Where clawed appendages softly creep.
Thou art no ravening beast of fang,
No dragon fierce with sulfurous clang;
Nay, subtler far thy darkling art—
A chuckle low, a rustling heart.
Thou nibblest at the edges bold
Of courage, turning valor cold
With promises of ticklish woe:
A tentacle that bids thee know
The chill of what might, perchance, be there—
A claw, a scale, a glassy stare.
Witty rogue! Thou playest well
The game of what we dare not tell.
For in the daylight’s brazen glare,
We swear thee false, a vapor rare;
Yet when the candle gutters low,
And shadows lengthen, row on row,
Thy legend blooms like midnight rose:
“Check under there!” the youngling knows.
And parents, feigning bravery stout,
Peer into voids with flashlight out,
Declaring, “Naught but socks and fluff!”
Whilst inwardly they’ve had enough
Of wondering if, in truth, thou art
More real than science’s counterpart.
O archaic fiend of yore and yet,
Thou hauntest still the modern bed!
With arching spine of chitin gleam,
And eyes like coals in fevered dream—
Thou dost not devour the flesh entire,
Nor set the curtains all a-fire;
Thy feast is subtler, more refined:
The squirm of fear, the racing mind,
The giggle edged with dark delight
That lingers long into the night.
Thou art the jest the cosmos plays
On those who’d banish elder ways—
A proof that wonder, dark and bright,
Defies the cold, electric light.
Come, creature mine, thou unseen guest,
Who never quite doth manifest
In fullness, lest the game grow stale;
Thou teaset with thy flickering tail,
A brush of fur, a scrape of nail,
A breath that whispers, “Do not quail—
For I am here to guard the deeps
Where adult reason never creeps.”
In thy domain of fluff and void,
The boldest knight is but a boy,
The sternest sage a trembling child,
Who learns that fear can be beguiled.
Yet hark! When dawn’s first fingers creep
Across the floor in golden sweep,
Thou slinkest back to thy demesne,
A memory half-seen, half-dreamed.
No trace remains but perhaps a sock
Displaced, or dust in curious flock.
And thus we rise, with knowing grin,
To face the world of light again—
But ever mindful, in our core,
That thou awaitest, evermore,
For when the lights are doused once more,
And children call thee to the fore.
So here’s to thee, thou witty shade,
Of arching form and subtle trade:
May thy dark jests forever play
Beneath the beds where dreamers lay.
Not too fell, nor over-bright—
Just enough to spice the night.
For in thy absence, life grows tame;
With thee, it sparkles, wild with flame.
And if some skeptic dares deny
Thy noble, nebulous reply—
Bid them recall their own young years,
When every creak bespoke thy peers.
Thou art the creature that isn’t there,
Yet everywhere, in every lair
Of youthful fancy, bold and free:
The Monster of Credulity.
_______________
You know my books are on Audible? If you have Audible, do check them out under “Jeff Mach”
Comments are closed.