King of the Black Rock

Whispers of madness riding on the salty
gale – over jagged slivers of slick black
rising up out of the Northern Sea as
teeth – gleaming, cold, and awaiting worn
wood and despair. A chuckling
coming out of the oily rocks, luring
vessels near. Dreams of soil and
emerald blades – slipping reality; confusion
and extremes close in on the mind. Scarlet
veins covering his skin and coarse tangles
of matted hair fluttering as the violent wind
rips though. Awaiting a gleam of light
in the darkening north.

The King of the Black Rock
whispers to the dipping waves,
drawing near what he can. Hideous sea birds
flock and feed on rotting remains. He calls
out – into the storm
and voices
answer.

Matthew David Laing writes from the Ottawa Valley in Ontario, Canada. Matthew has had poetry and short fiction accepted by Bewildering Stories, Hello Horror, The Corvus Review, and Three Drops from a Cauldron, to name a few.

Find more by Matthew David Laing in the Author Index.

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