In the dark creeps a bogeyman
who sings, like the rest,
of the midnight moonglare
on its hidden bogeynest.
He howls and he screeches
till the children lie awake
then they tremble as he reaches
fingers slithering like snakes.
His teeth gnash and grind them
as they cry for the breast
of their mother, father, someone
who could save them from the rest.
But the bogeyman is careful
as he eats the child’s bones
depositing one bogeychild
who takes their place in their home
The bogeychild goes to sleep
the bogeychild does not weep
the bogeychild does not make a peep
and so the parents tend to keep
So if you know a little child
who used to cry but doesn’t
beware for that’s a bogeychild
and not your little cousin.


About Michael Robinson

An eclectic person living in a world rife with binaries, opposition, anger and pain and trying to find the spectra, love, happiness and catharsis within.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, XX30. Bookmark the permalink.

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