The end of the dock,
a darkness tangible,
set below a milky white moon,
masked in the thickening rush
of steam settling on the water.
On the edge, a single lit lantern,
molten gold playing hide and seek
with the surface of the lake
that reveals none of the horrors
that stir silently in the depths.
They disturb not a single caress
of the languished waves
clawing at a no mans land,
black, flickering tongues
rocking the fiberglass vessel.
The man, fatigued and desperate,
looks for one last catch.
The silence desecrated, hardly a single
discernible whisper to be heard
rising above it.
The line depresses, as it finally gets a catch,
drawing low craft and commander,
the ink settling
sooner than it should
as he sinks like a stone.
Serenity too real is soon replaced by fear
as at the end of the line,
the ninth league,
he stares into its eyes the color of flesh.
It would smile if it had a mouth.
A cold, clammy, slimy embrace,
holds him still,
as panic reverts to madness
proclaimed in one languished breath
spilling onto the surface
of the mercurial brook.
