Greta Weaver paces in her dusty house
And the wind hums through the walls.
The electricity had coughed,
Flickered away hours ago.
Everything is in order.
There is a howling in the storm
And it is not the wind.
It sounds like a battlecry: high and wailing.
Chills skitter down her scarred forearms.
Everything is in order.
There is no pretense or prescient
That foretells Its coming
And It appears: a ghost out of the night;
And It whispers.
Everything is in order.
It whispers as It did in her dreams,
Full of secrets she does not understand.
It takes her face in Its hands
And the pain begins, a slow throb.
Everything is in order.
When she begins to scream, It makes no move
To silence her.
It has done this before.
The world becomes blurry and the pain becomes a sound.
Everything is in order.
The sound is both a roar and a murmur:
Flooding into her and through her.
And when the sound and the pain silences
There is nothing but It.
Everything is in order.
It is the nothing and the whole.
And for a moment the storm stops
And It is the only thing.
And It is the only thing.
Everything is in order.
The dusty house stands alone in the night,
And the wind hums through the walls.
The electricity had coughed,
Flickered away hours ago.
Everything is in order.
YOU ARE READING
The Emergence
PoetryThere is a man who is named John Statten Roman and whose lifeline is strangely and inextricably tied with that of the beautiful and elusive girl, Zooey, and the mysterious and powerful figure known as Mardock. There is a city that does not exist and...
