Something Isn'T Right

A chorus of raw throats rasp out warnings then quieten, leaving an edgy silence twitching on the lips of a morning or riding the ticker moving across the bottom of a television screen. Something isn't right. There's an unease that seems to be leaking out of lesions in the carnage to come, a slow festering as if all life was waiting for a finger to squeeze the trigger of a loaded gun. And yet good people go about their lives as they normally do, saying their prayers, helpless, riled or for some, not wishing to care, though somewhere, hidden in a hollow at the back of a head, a dark is stirring from its sleep, getting ready to rise from its bed. Elsewhere, across a nation, more and more screams become stuck in the throats of the dead. Something isn't right.