Foreboding
Foreboding...
The air is thick, too still, too deep,
a hush that lingers, holds its breath,
as if the world itself won’t speak.
Foreboding...
Shadows coil along the walls,
not moving, yet not quite still,
watching, waiting—silent calls.
Foreboding...
The wind hums low, a hollow tune,
whispering secrets through the trees,
warning that something is coming soon.
Foreboding...
A footstep sounds—but you are alone,
your pulse quickens, your fingers shake,
a chill that settles in the bone.
Foreboding...
The door creaks open, darkness stirs,
a presence lingers, unseen, unknown,
a voice that whispers just one word... Run.
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