filled with those still
yappin at me,
from beside where
I sit

towering down,
menacingly
cruel, scowling
prowling, waiting

their way with words
immeasurable;
silent

records of insanity
scriptures and prescriptions
they could only fill
on their own

black magic tapestries
and peculiar anecdotes
of misery, agony
where what’s beyond our control
takes hold

break the mold; there are
            other ways
under the gaze of
            gray skies and eyes
pointed toward them

a cosmic gavel
unlikely and incomprehensible
the epitome of every—
single— little— thing—
with a sinister smile
that suggests otherwise

a dominion not yet
            diminished, spattered
in tar and not finished
an instantaneous wishlist
            wishing for all
            that it isn’t

just conjure enchantment
            if you can
and hold on to the illusion
            while you have the chance.

[insert the sound of a door opening and closing, footsteps echoing away down a long corridor, the smashing of glass—a window—and a scream that never ends]