A Dali in Delhi

As I was walking through the gloom
(a Delhi night without a moon)
I heard a cry, as from a loon,
but could not spy the creature.

‘Tis Whom?” I said, all quivery,
my voice of scant delivery,
my constitution shivery,
(but still could see no feature)

There came a creaking and a squeaking,
as from a chest of wooden drawers.
Then ’round the corner, something peeking
and blood was oozing from its pores.

It had a black sardonic grin.
Its head towards me swiveled.
Its rotting bones were caving in.
Its eyes so dark and shriveled.

Upon its chest and down its legs
were doors and cabinets,
and things of brass and wooden pegs
and ornaments elaborate.

Its breath so foul, but it conveyed
a misery of
 sorrow.
Its drawers and cabinets open stayed
in want of Souls to borrow.

I stood transfixed, within this alley
and hardly dared to move.
It seemed a creature, made by Dali,
escape-ed from the Louvre.

It creaked and clacked, and came so near
we almost did embrace.
And I, so rooted in my fear,
did stare into its face.

And now I knew just what it wanted.
My essence, it would steal
to fill its drawers and cabinets haunted,
my sorry soul its meal.

 

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