Memory Poem 'Cold Veins'

Dennis Crumb Jr.
CW-3-Emlong
Memory Poem
10-27-15
Portfolio Draft
Cold Veins
Milky balls open to reveal a sight of white. eyes lock on the ceiling and feverishly take every detail, every crack, every spike.
The audible click of the second hand begins to slow.

Skin starts to cool like a river as winter approaches, beads of cool sweat begin to form around the body.
As the clicks turn from seconds to minutes, to hours, the ambient sounds of the night begin to change.

The noise of cars driving by stop, the sound of the steady whir of the dryer, the unsteady shaking of the water heater die away, replaced by a bone chilling silence.

Eyes nearly bug out of their sockets as they desperately search the ceiling, ears twitch and try to find sound

A second step is heard.

This one closer.
The heart pumps in overdrive, bullets of sweat falling down the brow as the body locks up, like a gazelle that has seen the eyes of the panther about to pounce.

Every muscle tenses up, as the steps come closer, now only a few feet from the white door at the corner of the room.
Then they stop. A singular noise from outside drifts through the door, like a deep breath, almost deliberate, like it wanted its presence to be known

The locked door handle was gripped, slowly sliding down, bypassing the heavy metal lock bolting the door shut, the door creaks loudly to reveal a sliver of darkness

A figure stands, peeking through the doorway, its empty sockets observing the very being.
The milky orbs continue to gaze up at the ceiling, unwilling to look directly at the figure.

Hours pass, the figures breath fogging up the chilly air.
After what seems an eternity, the figure slowly recedes to the dark.
The heartbeat begins to pound again,

waiting for the figure to return.
The sweat that cakes the body begins to cool
The water heater starts up again, the dryer turns back on, and slowly, the ticks of the clock return.
Dennis Crumb Jr.
CW-3
List Poem 9-16-15
Draft

Content with life, they do not realize the vines slowly consume them.

Moss covers their bodies, sucking them into the depths of the grove.

A caprine head lays upon The Watchers shoulders,
Sunken eyes glow a brilliant bright white,
Horns curl as a Jacob's Sheep, seemingly penetrating into the very air.

The air hangs thick around it, nearly choking yet none would dare make such a noise in it’s presence.
Like a statue, it stands guard over the forest,

the trees, the secrets within.

The Watcher moves unseen, all report the static, rigid nightmare,
Its eyes always penetrating into the very essence, poisoning the mind to approach.

To come and join the fold, to come past The Watcher and into the endless haze. to be forever lost in the forest.
Dennis Crumb Jr.
CW-3
10-14-15
Extended Metaphor Poem

Steely Depths
The pages open to reveal the true blackness.
As you dive deeper into the chapters you begin to feel the pressure, all around you as you came underprepared.
Merely diving straight down.

Rushing to the deepest chasms and abyss of the ends, your craft is scrapped.
With no context you lose all sense and the inky liquid becomes impenetrable as granite.

So much lays