Them
Stay quiet.
Those blurry shadows
at the end of the mind
are getting restless.
They have incubated
for too long now
and will soon awake
and Iook for a form.
Every thought
you have is a feather to them,
plucking each as they are born,
putting themselves together
with what they take.
They care little for light
or dark. Survival is what
matters, growing on fear,
feeding on a lifetime
of leftovers.
Love kills them.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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