Incubus
It couldn’t happen
Not this, again
He knew it wasn’t real
A fiction of the mind;
Tricks played at the dead of night.
Of all the unexplainable terrors
It was mild
Not room 101
Hardly scuttling creatures
Or tortured souls.
But still
It was unshakeable, unstoppable.
Predictable,
Aggravating,
Yet no less terrifying.
People laughed,
He regretted confiding
What haunted him so deeply.
Freudian analysis
Made his cheeks burn crimson.
5.34 am
He would wake
A slow, stifled noise of distress
Before comprehension dawned.
Not a woman, still a man.
Issy Thompson
It couldn’t happen
Not this, again
He knew it wasn’t real
A fiction of the mind;
Tricks played at the dead of night.
Of all the unexplainable terrors
It was mild
Not room 101
Hardly scuttling creatures
Or tortured souls.
But still
It was unshakeable, unstoppable.
Predictable,
Aggravating,
Yet no less terrifying.
People laughed,
He regretted confiding
What haunted him so deeply.
Freudian analysis
Made his cheeks burn crimson.
5.34 am
He would wake
A slow, stifled noise of distress
Before comprehension dawned.
Not a woman, still a man.
Issy Thompson