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A poem by Epsilon - Monster above the covers.


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Most monsters hide beneath the bed,

Your darkest fears they are fed.

But this monster hides above the sheets,

A guise so thick, his appearance so sweet.

A figure of light, of authority, of kindness,

But truth be told, he is nothing like this.

He is a manipulative man, with no intention bliss.

A snake in the grass, an aggressive hiss. 


But you see, there is nothing to be done.

The monster is trusted, only I can run.

Run from his past, hidden by guilt.

Run from his manipulative soul, built on his own sore will.

Run from his abusive and vindictive temper, only inflated by his own anger.


To run is to be useless, and useless I am not.

A martyr I must act, a saviour for my own god.  

I must warn my own people, but locked in the tower I am.

I cannot reach the courtyard, where the monster still stands.

Edited by Epsilon
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