In shadow, pulling lamp cords tight,

then, cutting wires in a flashy white spark,

Mr. Jiggle, douses the lights,

darkness turns warm skin,

into a cold and hard gray.

The eyes glassy windowed glow, lost.

Heavy drapes fall,

last breath stolen,

bony fingers, made of shadow,

collects lamps and sparks.

Sandy time, holds gritty truth,

six feet deep,

where Mr. Jiggle dwells,

he claws a rectangle,

into the sleeping earth.

 With wet brown soil,

jammed under his nails,

he carves your name,

black and final, in stone,

soon he arrives,

to unplug your lamp.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert