Watchers

It's there.

In the shadows lingering

Feeding on frenzied short 

Breaths of anticipation 

I sneak peeks over my shoulder

I hear the rustling, rattling wheeze

And the slow scraping of nonhuman toenails 

On the carpeted steps to

Hell is of my own creation

They wait, watching

Leering around crevices and 

Staring me down in public places.

My breath quickens as I climb into the safety of my

Imaginary house of swords

My bed a vessel to nightmarish visions

And lurking laughter.

Edgar Allen has no claim on the vague shadows 

Seeping in through the open window blinds and

Crawling over the bland, beige carpets of this rental

They follow. 

They always follow. 

They always find me.

Chained to my soul 

Tethered to my mind

Trapped, burned indelibly on my eyes.

Strangled cries as I try to meditate, calming, resting

Then I see it.

In the corner.

Can't you see it? 

It's crooked twiggy finger beckoning?

Sharp stumps of what must be teeth shine

In an incandescent smile as I hide

Pulling the covers over my head, praying.

Go away. I don't know what you seek 

I fear the feeling of tearing flesh,

The sound of crunching bones

The nibbling of my soul.

And the bird. 

The bird hovers, talons loosing and gripping

Oversized wings bathe me in shadow.

A protector? 

Or is it showing the, where I lie, shivering, waiting for dawn?

Oh Edgar, I fear for my life, my sanity, my soul.

Nevermore.