Waylaid

You could not imagine,
is how the book of terror
begins its dusky reign.

Such a slippery start.
Whose sad hand
penned this farce?

The waylaid dream,
so it continues,
giving me inner-cheek

paper-cuts. Perhaps
there is a story here
after all. The fall

of solitary pride,
the holy hustling
of goose-flesh.

My hands tremble
too wildly
for any excavation

of this immaterial
tome. I take the
slippery route home.