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a poem

By Aaron MorrisonPublished about a month ago 1 min read
Runner-up in Dialogue Poetry Challenge

That sound is still so strange to me.

And just what sound would that be?

The squelching sound of the hook through flesh.

They’re sacks of meat. No more, no less.

I sometimes wonder who they were before.

It’s not our job to think.

Aren’t you the least bit curious?

No. I only worry ‘bout the stink.

There’s the bell. Another batch. It’s like the Hydra’s head.

Well put. For every one we hang, ten more arrive. An endless stream of dead.

At least that means we’ll always be employed.

Makes up for gloves and aprons soaked in blood and gore.

And I think I’m starting to understand ‘bout not guessing their old life or name.

Good. Because once they’re on the cable, everyone’s the same.

They send them down.

We send them out.

So many mouths to feed.

Hell of a job we have, my friend.

Hell of a job indeed.

Free Verse

About the Creator

Aaron Morrison

Writer. Artist. I write horror primarily, but dabble in other genres here and there.

Influenced by Poe, Hawthorne, Ligotti, John Carpenter, and others.

Everyone has a story to tell.

Author of Miscellany Farrago

instagram: @theaaronmorrison

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Comments (3)

  • Dharrsheena Raja Segarran8 days ago

    Wooohooooo congratulations on your win! 🎉💖🎊🎉💖🎊

  • Kendall Defoe 8 days ago

    Hell...that sounds like fun!

  • Shaun Walters8 days ago


Aaron MorrisonWritten by Aaron Morrison

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