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.
Copyright ©
Beatrix Macabre
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