A step is nothing here, no more than,
Useless flailing for some lost foundation,
That isn't there.

The inspection of my eyes shows no more than,
Black.

Then rushing, reaching, grasping, grabbing,
Doom-coated fingers,
****** at my soul and
my escape is no more than the longing
for the sweet spring in winter when
even the faintest hint of life is
struck down with frost.

I know there is little point in fear,
It can do no more than,
Conjure claws and the glimpse of eyes.

But still, fear grips me,
With those cracked, crooked talons,
And whispers twisted nothings,
As they wrap around my retching heart.

"You are no more than—