It watches you, from the shadow down the hall,
Eyes of a cold eternity in the face of a child,
It stalks you, hunting, hungering, thirsting,
The demon possession of an age-old power,
From a dark pit of oblivion,
The thing that should not be.
You try to run, but no escape can be found from the spawn of malice,
The thing moves with the speed of worldwide hatred,
Its gazes beyond your body, tainting your soul,
No escape from the thing that should not be,
This child of mankind.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 1 - A Fistful of Dust
PoetryThe earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
