Writhing is the brain, hair stood on end, 

with every beat of the eldritch heart. 

The air, a-buzz with cacophonous, insectoid droning, 

threatening to infiltrate and indoctrinate the mind;



twisting languid listening into a maddening gaze,

ablaze with hate and lacking sophistication. 



I cling, with fingers tensed, to the heavy, sticky rot

that lingers thickly in the air, 

and all my cares are gnawing at my soul. 



Something stirring deep within has heightened, 

and I’m frightened, finding myself once again 

scared of the dark. 



A darkness creeping deep within my dreams, 

which, snaking, strangles me; and when I wake 

I find I’m face down in contorted misery, 

like something ghostly sought to swallow me

alive. 



Wretched wasteful 

-undue, unholy and unsanctioned- 

sour tasting, ugly, rank: 

anxiety