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
Copyright © Colin Mitchell Williams | Year Posted 2009
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