My wits are terribly wrong little beasts.
They thrive through nights of hunger, prowl the bounds
Of faint perception. Their fangs snarl and bite
And chew and spit my hours of rest unwound.
They are the ancient and the fallen ones,
Remembrance cleared of your imperatives,
Rogue aberrations, evolution's waste,
Rejected bloodlines freed and cast adrift.
They stalk the silent void. They shadow dreams.
They spin the wisp on shattered porcelain,
Then echoes flare and rouse the drowsing gleam
Of conscious fire--the haze of rest undone.
My nights are days, lit white with absence while
A monster drools warm blood from a ghastly smile.