Blood Curdled At the Chilling Quill 3

Blood Curdled at The Chilling Quill 3 The night is too quiet for breathing The faces form Swelling from the pitch oily; floats Mouthless screaming Into monstrous caverns Where fang-ed teeth stalactite On slavering tongues Cold suffocation jabs pillowed rocks Deep into racing erratic heart And clamours the air on fingers bent With scratches awake on a coffin lid The weight of movement To slow to lift Raise your head and scuffle muted threats Dead hot blankets Of fevered dreams and swollen hands Push you over the edge And tight in your throat Breaks screeching into a panicked run With tied legs you twist Reclining pressed and pushed to escape But no freedom formulates As struggling madness reiterates Pressure barking At the corners of eyes Mouthless Screaming Screaming Mouthless Struggle Shake And eyes Suddenly Open You are awake