Ghost

The stomping was to the beat

Of the terror that

Grasped her heart like

Steel clamps to keep her

Cooking over the blue-flamed fire.

 

The stomping was the

Screeching of tile on gravel

Right outside her door

Hunters that never tire,

Scraping her over blue-flamed fire.

 

Stomping

Blue-flamed fire

Stomping

Steel-clamp terror.

 

Stop.

 

No more.

 

Dead silence.

 

Dead fear.

 

Cold hands climbing her neck

And the

Stomping in the attic had come to

 

Dead stop.

Reviews

[Dressed in Poetry]

I like that it ends with "Dead stop". It's neat.