Humorous Horror Poetry: The Lady at the Round Rustic Table

Alone in a dark cool downstairs room,
seated around an old rustic round table,
sits an elderly woman with long black hair
and white highlights woven through.

Her long wrinkled fingers with brittle nails,
and chipped red polish
tap on the old rustic table,
As the black candle dances
Illuminating the dark cool room.

Dressed in a long black red-belted dress,
sleeves draping her long thin freckled arms,
She sits at the old rustic round table
in thought, as she skims an old bound book
of spells and long-ago tales,
planning a charade for her next victim.

The soft tapping of long wrinkled fingers
grows louder, as her sighs become heavier.
A quiet cackle escapes dry cracked pink lips,
as she humors herself with a plan.

Rising from the old rustic table
She hums a mysterious tune
And waves her arms swiftly
As a white fog enters the room
And twirls around her in a slow dance.

Magically, the elderly lady with long black hair is nevermore.
A beautiful young busty golden blonde haired maiden
dressed in a white red belted gown emerges from the white smog.
Her lips are full, pink and luscious,
as she smiles with flirty blue eyes.

The black candle’s flame distinguises immediately.
The dark cool room becomes filtered
with warmth and sunshine.

The young busty maiden runs up the worn creaky stairs,
as a quiet cackle escapes her plush pink lips.
Loudly, she laughs and giggles, dancing to the outdoors,
searching for her next victim.

Upon her search, she follows a brick path
towards her small hometown village.
A young tall handsome brute with slicked brown hair
dressed in his Sunday’s suit
meets the maiden’s blue flirtacious eyes.

She bows, giggles and offers a smooth-skinned hand.
As if by magic, the brute is entranced by the maiden’s golden beauty.
She giggles again, and plants a kiss upon his quivering shocked lips.

A white smog filters through the brick path,
and twirls around in a slow dance with the young brute.
Surprised with horror, his youth was stolen unexpectedly.

His slicked brown hair now was darkend
with white highlights woven through.
Long wrinkled fingers and yellowed brittle nails
were bestowed upon his aged hands.

A quiet cackle escaped the plush pink lips of the golden maiden.
While a hoarse whispher throated from the old wrinkled brute,
“Why?”

She giggled outloud and in a sing-song voice yelled,
“Good day!”
and skipped down the brick path to the small-town village
While the brute’s youth was nevermore.

–Ariana R. Cherry 2014