The Alleyway


The alleyway never breathing, always still,

Wearing its dark, lengthy countenance.

Surrounded by naked trees, giving an uncanny chill

With its eerie aura that offers fatal thrills.


The alleyway watched by imperial ravens.

A haven, no doubt, for demons’ playground.

Marked with killers’ trophies deeply graven

In the dead flower beds, that now lie shaven.


The alleyway and its malevolent nature

Lacéd with the wintry lunar blanket.

Always concludes its frightening labour

And always leaves its victim a quaker.


The alleyway, patient, always waiting,

Ready to clasp a child, man or maiden.

For every time new stock arrives in the silence grating,

It sits there, in the shadows, - waiting, waiting.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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