The silhouette of death is loneliness
In which Ophidians may strike with bliss.
The mind moistens to ponds of ticking winds,
The soul represses purity for black,
And demons creep to reap the dying minds.
For what escape presents itself to thee?
Thou art a pris’ner to the itching arms
Of lurking shadows; wisps; monsters now free
To prey upon the isolat’d in their alarm.
The corner by thy friend for thy welfare
For hungry be the monsters’ stomachs wracked
To consume! to consume! All thou mayst dare.
What of the vision? Thought or nightmare’s spell?
For thou seest in mirrors an irised Hell.
Check out my YouTube channel! I make create stories on there as well and tell them in a different type of format: Mr. X