It was of an odious face.
Crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifting, light-grey eyes and white eyelashes.
That they wish us to live in a whirling storm of suspended laws, or so it seems,
The savagery and bitterness,
The ugliness of the world imposed thereon.
When assured, by portraits, that there was always a visage to be combated,
Into the first nightmare I went, where there was no Criminal:
Where the sheets caught me unfairly, twisting to unfair suffocation,
And this could be just as easily, except I cried out at this,
Tried my every damndest to avoid
The vision of destruction,
We were bringing this all on ourselves,
Wrestling with elusiveness, tantamount to nothing, could it be?
I saw the tumbling, the paviours of the Way made into a bed of nails, from the earth erupting. Nails hammered to pine,
Anticipation, I tremble, and am embarrassed.
The second, resultant, nightmare,
The shared detective and criminal becomes the creature in all its eyes.
It’s malefactors who give rise to Mysteries, sleet flurries and blindness, and there are worshippers of their Mysteries, so many of them,
When malefactor and cause have to be so intimately wrapped and given a sign (…But suppose the endlessly dead were to wake in us some emblem),
A tokenising of men as agency,
How long before any phenomenon of natural occurrence would coagulate to an Anthromorph?
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When No One is Looking by Hannah Shilling is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.