it occurs to me that i have birthed my own demons.
sprung forth from the loins of my pen
raised on the thin lines in swirling cursive
and turned in the night, when we both succumb to the darkness;
the m-m-madness.
they feed on my uncertainty.
my fear.
my fear of nothing.
my fear of everything.
of the unknown.
of the unseen.
they'll hammer into the walls at night,
and were i to shout them down,
they'd simply scurry across the floor
clawing the carpet and making me scream
so
i will battle them quietly, secretly
with a blank look upon my face
because
after all
i have no idea what any of it means.
only that surely, surely no one is truly sane
YOU ARE READING
the shepherd's sword
Acak[the things we dare not say aloud] the walls have faces, you know. the angels do not.
