Tumbling Down

He stood there at His side, the slinking wraith
With its sheer persuasion crippling reality,
Time lapses in the whirlwind, as the soaked
Knife crashes on to the painted tiles, Splattering the fresh pattern,
As the wraith grins, tightening
Its grasp around His mind, letting the ballast
Carry Him further out, losing sight,
Another soul consumed by Sanity,
Its own enemy, fishing for the dead drowning
In the impenetrable molasses,
The wraith never left Him, not for a single tick
Before it filled it’s belly, left the hollow shell
In the dwindling, choking on the vanishing,
The pole snapped in the fisherman’s hold
As He, tumbled down into the abyss.

Between the Growl and the Fog

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My escape has been stunted, by the murky unknown
That stretches out before me, radiating
The creeping darkness, crawling towards me
From out the thick blindness, that I must get through,
The decaying bridge wavers in my hesitation
As the growling, grows louder behind me
Shaking the stiffled limbs that refuse to thaw,
Where will I be, if I strain into the ingesting fog?
Can I truly outrun the steady pursuant familiar
With my stench, studied my vacant steps
In the forever desert of consciousness,
Can I hurdle the giant’s stalk to make it past
My glooming premonition, stalking me,
Slithering my step an inch further down
While the growl pervades and interrupts the silence,
Which, in turn, forces another inch by inch
Until I’m fully immersed, into the coddling,
Sentenced to the overshadowed distance,
Lost, to the growl that has plummeted down
Into the looping void, still in its search,
I’ve failed in my escape, I’ve chosen the wrong side.

Stolen Senses

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Do you dare to turn away from the door,
Slowly creaking, as it opens to show
Its daunting depths, your enemy reaching
To tear your life out and bring it back
Into hollow emptiness, feeding starving vultures,
But you pin yourself, tightly into the corner’s edge
Locking, your tiring gaze upon the oozing dark
Slithering under the bed, and over your head,
Pinching your lips shut, to suffocate any whimper
To not give away your voice,
Squeezing your eyelids until they wrinkle
To not give away your sight,
They hunger for it, feeling for vulnerability
Of the glass, holding in the quicksand,
The rattle of its drag along the room hisses
In your ear, as you realize
You’re left open as it takes your hearing,
Your heart plummets as you open your eyes, blind,
Gasping, but no sound emerges,
You’re left, vacuous,
Stolen senses by those who feed on them.

©DorianPoe2016