At first the moment's rather fair,
Not stolid nor extreme.
You're focused on some parcel
of habitual routine.
Light heartedly you go about,
not the slightest thing awry,
but alas, here comes that
creeping,
crawling,
plotting..
and you repeat that ritual lie:
"There is no creeping crawling inside,
just focus on your task.
it's only but a thought you have the power to deny,
Don't mind it, it will pass."
You go about your business,
but you begin to pick up the pace
as the colloquial chore becomes
An all consuming race.
You then commence to
huff and gasp
for extra air your body needs
But you dreadfully realize you're not going to last
The murk has already planted its seed.
When did the shadows that lurk in your room
become such fast-growing creatures?
From where came the armor and weapons galore
That embellish their terrifying features?
When did your fingers begin to quiver and shake
10 minutes ago you didn't regret being awake,
But now you cannot stand,
your chest has turned to sand,
Panic begins to band
With all the wretchedness of the land
And you cannot understand
how you became so weak at the hands
of the unmerciful demands
For entertainment of this cursed, wicked, sinister, unrelenting horror that is not woman nor man!
but then all falls silent. The stillness grows.
That dark cloud of defeat encircles your throat
And you know
That you have lost.
Abandoned.
No one came.
You've pleaded to them. You've cried out their name.
but it was one of a million. The end is the same.
At first the moment's rather fair.
Sedated. Inextreme.
This unpassive, smothered bliss is now your  prevalent routine.