Paper derived from the plaque encrusted teeth of the Northern shrew, coated with a thin film of its viscous ichor.
Coarse yet malleable; flimsy to the touch.
A slender, thin line marks the margin,
Creating a sheltered enclosure away from the focal area.
Miles
upon
miles
away.
.
.
A drawing in the margin,
One wouldn't dare bypass it's threshold.
A muzzy silhouette; vapid yet agitated strokes of black fine-liner seize the whole,
As if to seep into the creases of the sheet.
The linework is jagged, full of oddly placed curves and unsettling movement.
Mollified,
yet the disparity is almost ardent.
Soft, with a hue alike that of oxidized rust.
.
.
.
An entity so obscure one can't help but be drawn to it.
To ****** youself against the margin,
To feel the keratin burn right off of your skin,
The friction between yourself and the margin is penetrating.
A tingly sensation,
If static was a sentiment.
.
.
THWACK
A desolate vastness pervades the pupils in your eyes,
It is as if what used to reside has been covered in white-out.
Yet always traces remain
You see the blurred image of a shrew from the corner of your eye,
Incisions mark its features, cracked and fissured,
As if derived from terracotta clay.
An accusatory tone,
Yet nothing spoken is legible.
.
.
.
Dismayed, you begin to sink into the sheer liquid plane that envelops you,
Fragments of crimson coloured hues still mark your footsteps.
What once lied sentient no longer lies even a corpse,
Only traces,
Now only traces remain.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 11:09 PM UTC
Paper derived from the plaque encrusted teeth of the Northern shrew, coated with a thin film of its viscous ichor.
Coarse yet malleable; flimsy to the touch.
A slender, thin line marks the margin,
Creating a sheltered enclosure away from the focal area.
Miles
upon
miles
away.
.
.
A drawing in the margin,
One wouldn't dare bypass it's threshold.
A muzzy silhouette; vapid yet agitated strokes of black fine-liner seize the whole,
As if to seep into the creases of the sheet.
The linework is jagged, full of oddly placed curves and unsettling movement.
Mollified,
yet the disparity is almost ardent.
Soft, with a hue alike that of oxidized rust.
.
.
.
An entity so obscure one can't help but be drawn to it.
To ****** youself against the margin,
To feel the keratin burn right off of your skin,
The friction between yourself and the margin is penetrating.
A tingly sensation,
If static was a sentiment.
.
.
THWACK
A desolate vastness pervades the pupils in your eyes,
It is as if what used to reside has been covered in white-out.
Yet always traces remain
You see the blurred image of a shrew from the corner of your eye,
Incisions mark its features, cracked and fissured,
As if derived from terracotta clay.
An accusatory tone,
Yet nothing spoken is legible.
.
.
.
Dismayed, you begin to sink into the sheer liquid plane that envelops you,
Fragments of crimson coloured hues still mark your footsteps.
What once lied sentient no longer lies even a corpse,
Only traces,
Now only traces remain.
After a long month of writer's block, I am back. This one is partly inspired by what memories feel like. With 'The margin' representing the threshold between reality and reminiscence.