La Criatura de los Muertos

With battered bones and broken teeth,
There dwells a creature they call the creep.
Whose eyes are blind and slits of red,
But do not rest within his head,
For In his palms, so quite sly,
Here you find this beings eye.
And in it’s fingers long and thin,
He searches on the waves of wind.

Of nothing more than skin and bones,
With arms so slightly over-grown,
Resting upon a tabled feast
A heavy breath escapes the beast.
Til a grape is stole and placed,
To her lips for just a taste,
The creep he rises off his seat,
For warned she was not to eat.

She runs on down a narrow hall,
And draws a square upon the wall,
As she pushes with all her might,
He comes on closer into her sight.
With a limp he shuffles near,
She drops her chalk in clumsy fear.

She pulls a chair and draws again,
Above her head a doorframe.
With a push it opens wide,
She stumbles and begins to climb,
’til she is up out the floor,
And left the creature behind the door.

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