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In the blue if your face I see a room.
Small
and cramped.
Black
and white.
Austere,
It flickers there behind angry, uncertain eyes.
Like an old film
exposed
too long to the sun.
When you exhale, I can smell the room's stale air.
Almost
I can taste the fetid stench
of dying dreams
and long dead compassion.
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At night they feed. Knuckles dragging as they travel through your town, devouring your dreams, leaving furrows in their wake like deep graves. Angry scars in the waking world. Paralyzed by the rising sun's beauty these night-terrors let loose an awful howl. People start awake and dash about their homes in fear. The day is spent running in circles, trying to escape those monstrous screams - many stumble into the graves the monsters left in the night - until the sun once more sets and the survivors return to their beds. To the relative safety of their dwindling, sunlit dreams.
