Too Close To The Edge

The world tilts into a crescendo, manifesting a lure of viral plague, pervasive and fangs virulent, sickening coquettish carnivorous creatures. Why bother with their musings, why care? A question that reminds me I am human, but am I? Do I appear as one of you? Not even slightly, something much more, horrifying. As the witching hour casts its gloomy pallor, I am ensnared, in the icy grip of this malevolent night. My thoughts akin to relentless phantoms, assail me, their terrifying truths, piercing the shroud of my awareness. I crave, the sweet oblivion of slumber, a sanctuary, from the relentless grind of my psyche. Yet they pay no heed to my entreaties, ceaselessly whirling, molding me into grotesque caricature of despair. Now stands a crafted sculpture, dipped in a witches cauldron, swirling with bright crimson and thick dark bile. I am an entity forged in the abyss of desolation, a living nightmare, feminine embodiment of Frankenstein's horror.