The Figure

by Stepan Stepanovich

Down below the midnight’s might,
Came a figure, dread in sight.
Did I know if he was real?
None could know, but I still feel
Bony fingers touching mine
And hear: “Come now, let us dine.”

We did sit at tables long;
Spoke he, though I might be wrong:
“Taste this freshly kneaded bread,
Drink three cups of wine so red.”
Could I ever spurn the choice?
At his feast, I did rejoice.

When he said the meal was done,
He led me far from everyone.
“Wherefore walk so far away?”
He replied, “To make thee stay.”
“But stay where?” I asked again.
“Where no soul can hear thy pain.”

Down below the midnight’s might,
Locked the doors and dimmed the light.
Chained my legs so I’d not flee,
Loudly spoke in awful glee:
“Desire is sweet when it is feared...”
And in the dark, he disappeared.

Through the years, I saw no face,
Dread, O dread within this place.
Once the figure came and said,
“Wherefore art thou still not dead?”
I replied in sorrows deep,
“I rot; I die each time I weep.”

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Stepan Stepanovich is an emerging poet drawn to gothic literature and classic macabre themes. He enjoys exploring the unsettling, raw, and sorrowful through traditional rhyme and meter. He currently resides in Greece.