Those that disturb our sleep
have nightmares of their own.
The vampire in her coffin trembles
through the sun's hours,
grateful that she has her curse
on which to blame her hunger.
It is the cannibal who frightens her,
driven to gnaw the flesh of other men
by no more than the shadows of his own mind.
The patchwork corpse in the lab
lies upon his metal bed and tries
not to flinch at the soft footsteps around him.
It is the scientist he fears,
blind without religion to provide a moral compass;
and the priest as well,
lame without science to enlighten with explanations;
someday they will come for him
with their knives and their pitchforks
and find him wherever he hides.
The werewolf in the frozen north
trots over his beloved tundra
and cocks a nervous ear toward the sky.
It is the hunters in their helicopters
who worry him, the heavy chop of blades
and the sharp bark of the long-range rifles.
The bullets do not need to be silver,
he knows, if they can drive him onto the ice
and then through it
into the frigid black water.
What scares them the most, though,
is the knowledge that they themselves
were created from what they fear --
they can only become monsters
because we already are.