He Took a Wrong Path Home

by damommy

And having once turned round, walks on,
and turns no more his head;
because he knows, a frightful fiend
doth close behind him tread.

The Ancient Mariner
Samuel Taylor Coleridge's (1772-1834)

A darkened alley late at night,
the man goes down this lonely lane
and tries to shake the eerie sense
that something untoward lurks there.
Avoiding puddles everywhere,
he listens for a step behind,
that something’s wrong he is aware,
and to himself admits some fright.
He cranes his neck to take a look,
and having once turned round, walks on.

There is no moon, no stars that shine,
his cloak repels the pounding rain.
With hat pulled down above his eyes,
he plods his way along the line
of shuttered windows, heavy doors,
and hears a baby’s hungry cries.
He cannot look behind again
for fear of what is there to find,
and yearns the safety of his bed,
and turns no more his head.

With flying feet and beating heart,
relentless chills run down his spine,
he stumbles on the cobblestones,
regains his footing, staggering,
then fumbles down the dark pathway.
No glimpse of life, and not a sign
of anybody who could help.
The only thing to do is pray
that something, someone intervenes,
because he knows, a frightful fiend

is breathing down his sweaty neck.
His breathing’s labored, hard to breathe,
his pounding pulse has filled his ears.
Keep running on, all he can do,
as hope for aid begins to fade.
His spirit’s overcome by dread,
fatigue is all he’s feeling now.
He must go on, he must not stop.
And now he’ll die because the fiend
doth close behind him tread.

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Glosa contest entry

Recognized

#39
February
2023

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He Took a Wrong Path Home

by damommy

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