These demons they linger till dawn, but they are not
gone- an afternoon nap, vital for midnight perversion
and infallible travesties.
Between the fingers of shadows lie the making of a
caricature that buckles the core of your mind and
exploits the seeds you have so carefully nurtured.
Mute, so you listen gingerly to waves that make no
sound. You gaze blankly- roads and people turn into
white walls, but then you hear it.
You hear the thoughts that is masking your sight,
disfiguring the outlines of your expression. No longer
seeking words or sounds, taste and smell but absent.