The Incubus
by Ryan Tilley
It’s time I had a time alone.
The spirit comes to call at night.
An Arab man would cast a stone.
My dog begins to bark with fright.
He never says a word, this beast,
But lust may speak through stares and touch.
The ghost, in wrong like wicked priest,
Returns. He must atone for much.
I feel the weight upon my chest
As presence pushes purpled past.
I toss and turn all night, no rest.
From front or back, he’s cheetah fast.
And now, I feel the crush of air
As bed begins to slowly tilt.
The phantom finger brush of hair
Becomes a burden bearing guilt.
My husband’s whispers trickle down
Like melting ice. The water drops
Can weather rock. A tug on gown
And sense of peace and purpose stops.
The madness starts again; my arms
Are pinned like captured butterfly.
My body still as cold reforms
The sound of silence breaks with sigh.
I see depression form in bed.
The sudden sag substantiates
My spouse’s superstitious head.
My poet husband contemplates
The curse. A shaman knows the art
Of healing man and alters fates.
But does this demon have a heart?
Sadistic spirit masturbates.
His kiss with taste of ash repels.
His tongue is forked and serpentine.
He had a dream of wedding bells.
I didn’t become his valentine.
On sheets, the sweat collects and blends
With sickly sweet lethargic hemp.
I told him drugs are losers’ friends.
He’s power-mad, once was a wimp.
He only comes at night like bat,
Eclipsing all that lies in path.
He has a thirst like jungle cat.
He kills my hope in aftermath.
I dare address the thing by name.
I think he will recall our days
In school before the drugs and shame
Of diabolic dark displays.
Immortal wisdom, paradox
Of death. His soul is stuck in time.
He had a dream of ring in box,
But placed a witch’s spell in rhyme.
The woman warned of consequence.
He ignored crone and paid her fee.
The heart will pass by weak defense.
A lady’s love is never free.
The question asked is what’s the cost
Of action. Price and value rise.
He looked in mirror, fingers crossed.
He knew the truth concealed by lies.
We part at death is wedding vow,
But separation happens soon
As pair destroys the here and now
Like Gypsy quickly reading rune.
The future looms like hurricane
In Gulf as storm decides which path
To take. The present, full of pain,
Destroyed by temper-swelling wrath.
My husband lights the way, the floor
Through window sealed by candlelight
And prayer from holy book, but more
Than hope and man of second sight
Should battle foe who hides in air.
The house is circumscribed by salt
And cleansed by sage. He strips me bare
In dreams declaring lack of fault.
The ghost is startled; smoke alarm
Staccato beeps with burning sage.
He once was handsome, full of charm,
But death has given ugly rage.
The spirit comes to call at night.
An Arab man would cast a stone.
My dog begins to bark with fright.
He never says a word, this beast,
But lust may speak through stares and touch.
The ghost, in wrong like wicked priest,
Returns. He must atone for much.
I feel the weight upon my chest
As presence pushes purpled past.
I toss and turn all night, no rest.
From front or back, he’s cheetah fast.
And now, I feel the crush of air
As bed begins to slowly tilt.
The phantom finger brush of hair
Becomes a burden bearing guilt.
My husband’s whispers trickle down
Like melting ice. The water drops
Can weather rock. A tug on gown
And sense of peace and purpose stops.
The madness starts again; my arms
Are pinned like captured butterfly.
My body still as cold reforms
The sound of silence breaks with sigh.
I see depression form in bed.
The sudden sag substantiates
My spouse’s superstitious head.
My poet husband contemplates
The curse. A shaman knows the art
Of healing man and alters fates.
But does this demon have a heart?
Sadistic spirit masturbates.
His kiss with taste of ash repels.
His tongue is forked and serpentine.
He had a dream of wedding bells.
I didn’t become his valentine.
On sheets, the sweat collects and blends
With sickly sweet lethargic hemp.
I told him drugs are losers’ friends.
He’s power-mad, once was a wimp.
He only comes at night like bat,
Eclipsing all that lies in path.
He has a thirst like jungle cat.
He kills my hope in aftermath.
I dare address the thing by name.
I think he will recall our days
In school before the drugs and shame
Of diabolic dark displays.
Immortal wisdom, paradox
Of death. His soul is stuck in time.
He had a dream of ring in box,
But placed a witch’s spell in rhyme.
The woman warned of consequence.
He ignored crone and paid her fee.
The heart will pass by weak defense.
A lady’s love is never free.
The question asked is what’s the cost
Of action. Price and value rise.
He looked in mirror, fingers crossed.
He knew the truth concealed by lies.
We part at death is wedding vow,
But separation happens soon
As pair destroys the here and now
Like Gypsy quickly reading rune.
The future looms like hurricane
In Gulf as storm decides which path
To take. The present, full of pain,
Destroyed by temper-swelling wrath.
My husband lights the way, the floor
Through window sealed by candlelight
And prayer from holy book, but more
Than hope and man of second sight
Should battle foe who hides in air.
The house is circumscribed by salt
And cleansed by sage. He strips me bare
In dreams declaring lack of fault.
The ghost is startled; smoke alarm
Staccato beeps with burning sage.
He once was handsome, full of charm,
But death has given ugly rage.
Ryan Tilley has recent poetry published in New York Literary Magazine, Twisted Vine, The Flagler Review, and Genre Urban Arts. He won the Baltimore Poe House and Museum faux Poe poetry contest and has placed as a runner-up six times in The Saturday Evening Post's bimonthly limerick contest.