Its breath submerges me a circle deeper.
I can feel the tar serpent slither and slide like thick, murky fog– toxic.
Artic; so cold. Chaotic, like a mold,
festering, blistering, growing far too quickly.
Lovingly, the demon touches my neck with its black, blunt fingers;
Drawing a little, light, line through me even further.
My spine is Parkinson's.
M..myheart isn’t ready.
I fear it’s touch.