The light of the hunter’s moon is heavy and hard,

The folk in the fields fall fallow and sleep,

A deepness; a darkness within draws me down.

A seeping wretched soul, I feel. I seem. I am.

I sing great ballads of pain, belting out my bitter strife.

A knife-keen cut swells, to knot in my chest.

My blood bleeds thick, as sap from thick-skinned bark.

As the hunter’s hard moon shines and holds my heart.

I do not howl; I dream for those who died.

I cannot weep aloud, for wakeful eyes will know.

And those who sleep would see my soul stripped bare.

The shamble of a sodden man, his shame in hunter’s light.

I did it.

I finally did it.

I killed the bastard, using the same hunting knife he had used on me many times before. My only regret is his wife found me with his blood-emptied body and called the cops.

Now I am running for my life; a life I finally got back. I'll be damned if anyone will ever put me in a cage again.

My lungs are on fire as I harshly inhale the humid morning air, the fresh air almost makes me queasy, I am so accustomed to the rotting musk from the basement, that my body doesn't know how to handle the clean air. The muscles in my legs are protesting, but I push my body, running as fast as I can down the stirring street.

The town I haven't seen in... well I have no idea how long... blurs past me. I want to stop and see if the small cafe my mother used to bring me to every Friday before hockey practice is still there. The buttery chocolate croissant is damn near melting in my mouth from the thought. My stomach lets out a roar and I curse under my breath; when was the last time that bastard fed me? The days I spent in the cage blurred together with no window in sight, and my captor didn't bother to ensure I maintained a healthy diet. I can’t stop, not for nostalgia, not for anything.

The sirens are getting louder. Shop owners begin stumbling onto the sidewalk to see what could be causing such a disturbance in their quaint little town. A wave of desperation comes crashing into me, like a sickly chill, the feeling of premature agony.

I need an escape.

As if I manifested it, a red door appears on the side of a crumbling brick building. I have lived in this town my entire young adult life, and I know before the kidnapping, that door hadn't existed. A large sign on the building's front, "condemned", draws my eyes. The door is out of place. But I don't have the time to stop and ponder its existence as tires screech on the pavement at the curve of the road only a few meters away.

I am panting like a dog in heat. I know my gelatinous leg muscles will give out if I dare try to run again, so I do what any sane person would do in my situation... I yank open the red door, surprised to find it unlocked and slam it behind me.

I move to the side, ducking under a window I know, sure as hell, wasn't there a minute ago.

I hold my breath as the sirens race past me, the police oblivious to my escape. Once it quiets outside, and the only sound is my heart thundering inside my chest, I dare peek out the window. The street is filled with nosey onlookers, but nothing more. I have graced the townspeople with something new to gossip about for weeks.

I let out a deep breath, the window fogging around my lips. I decide to turn away from the window, if someone spots me looking all ominous and creepy they may call the cops back.

The area around me is dark, darker than normal dark if that’s even possible. It's as if the shadows are alive as they morph their onyx forms around the three men staring at me.

Oh shit.

Three beady red eyes meet mine. A look of shock is all I can make out on their faces before the shadows swallow their faces, leaving the metal table they are gathered around visible. Another man is strapped to the table with cuffs around his ankles and wrists, his golden skin is marred with gouges and blood dripping into crimson pools on the cement floor beneath him. Six sets of latex-gloved hands hold instruments of doom above the man, whose impossibly purple eyes meet mine.

What in the actual fuck.

I clear my throat, reaching behind me, feeling the wall for the door so I can escape, but the cold rigid stone bricks are all I can feel. I turn my head in a flash, weary about facing away from the horror-movie-worth-scene in front of me.

The door is gone. The window is gone. There is nothing but a solid wall without any indication of how I got here.

“You are not going anywhere,” a gravelly voice comes from one of the men.

I whip my head back in their direction. The shadows are lining them like a demonic aura, their faces clearer, and their Cheshire-worthy smirks have my gut sinking low in my stomach.

Jail.

Jail is looking much better than this.

Meagan Verstraten.

For what it's worth, I'm no poet,

But it was once put to me a certain way,

That I have a something for metaphor,

And now there is nothing left to say.

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

Failing catastrophe I think,

And for it, I'm grateful, so grateful I'd wager,

Since I don't have much to take from myself,

Being of dull mind and word is safer.

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

And If you've heard a Raven's cry,

And mistook it for a dream or happy lie,

I wonder if you'd ever thought of why

Such dark birds come to you to fly?

Though still, I could stand repeating,

One verse competing,

One tired old drum still beating,

But that, my love, is self defeating.

So life is very long they say,

And in many ways it's true,

But spending life a hollow man,

Can't be good for you.

Break the pattern if that's what you do.

But patterns aren't always full of gloom,

Maybe, if you'd just see it through,

No raving goodnight will loom,

and the light might rage in you.

In Russia we had radiators

Hi ~ss~ ing

us into dreams coiled atop our heads into perfect shades of fire.

Not a single moment passed away.

The clock I kept synced up

Tick tocking me

into existence...

Resurrected.

A closet full of cat bones, kerosene and gas masks

where I held myself in the business of an hour.

Projects like dreams dismissed with pensive waves and a shush fallen toward well intended wishes.

Exclamation points to the question marks in the bend of my bones

B o t t o m l e s s

like falling in sleep.

You are no different as we are all on our last drink of youth.

So I carried myself across continents

concealed all my pointy ends with obedience.

Learning that enemies come in at all angles as I traveled away from the center.

I left them behind like virgins that I flirted with and left believing.

Two new writers, one seasoned author, a man of area, and a 3 a.m. poem blend as one to bring in episode 18 on Prose. Radio. You have to check out this writing, because, as usual, the writers from Prose. are always badasses. Bottom line.

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6DBZYgEbIw

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/807977/opium-methadone

https://www.theprose.com/post/122344/sisters

https://www.theprose.com/post/809182/2011

https://www.theprose.com/post/809142/so-be-it

https://www.theprose.com/post/809074/frustration-sits-in-a-moving-train

https://www.theprose.com/post/809085/a-junkie-was-born

https://www.theprose.com/post/809186/aveux-dans-la-salle-de-bain

https://www.theprose.com/post/809161/silver-tongued-derelict

https://www.theprose.com/post/809168/3am

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team