The Nicolson Institute: Luke Macdonald
The mist cleared away,
Its presence was known.
The thick smell of sweat reached my nose
It wore a red cloak and a black tophat,
Its greasy hair covered its threatening eyes.
I could taste the air, dry, rotten.
The noise of a lightening strike,
A high-pitched scream.
I took one last look at it,
And ran in fear.
by Luke A Macdonald