Bogey Man Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

A Bogey man
is dancing something
weird.

A tortous shape,
thin limbs
and pasty beard.

Leering
into my open
casement.

I am benumbed
with awe and stark
amazement.

Has he picked me
for a free dancing
teacher?

Can my poor skills
teach that contortionist
creature?

Yes, I am convulsed
like in a break dance
frenzy.

He's copying me
like shadowy and subterranean
denizen.

Does it what I can see
look like
an apparition?

Or have I conjured up
a raucous
superstition?

Is it mere a play
of fading faulty
glow?

Or tis the darkness
knitting its pale
brow?

The Bogey man, perhaps,
my eclipsed
dreaming? ...

Oh, must be a cloth
pinned onto a line
a-streaming!

Living alone
through all reverberating
periods,

Take things for ghosts,
dwarfs, angels, elves and similar
weirds...