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Originally published in Disturbed Digest, December 2015

I waited until the last
shovel of dirt was cast down
before I trusted that I
was safely beyond his reach.
I walked home, calm, not looking
over my shoulder. This night,
I knew, I would sleep at last.

When his mangled fingernails
and broken shards of his teeth
tore me in dreams that same night
and I did not awaken,
I knew immediately
that the mapmakers were wrong.
There is an end of the earth—

A precipice down through mist
writhing with serpents and ghosts,
steep and jagged holding ships
dashed to pieces on the rock
plunging toward the flames of hell
with handholds just plentiful
enough for him to crawl out.