They

 

As we sit

late after midnight,

letting

the crawling darkness

envelop us,

 

when the true witching hour

falls upon us.

As the clocks sync to the rhythm

of your breathing, and your

heart beats more erratically.

 

The shadows can seem scary,

But it isn't their darkened hues

that shiver our bones

But the things we see and just don't know.

 

The void creatures,

whose skin is hollow black.

No light can enter or touch.

It devours the ambience

that should surround,

leaving just an imprint,

a galactic footprint.

Its true silhouette

printed on your sandy mind.

 

And this is something

we cannot comprehend

or understand,

the dimensions within

too vast, too complicated,

Escher-sketched beings,

with one or maybe a million

unfurled limbs

morphing and melting 

into the air.

 

They unfold into our atmosphere,

seeping into the pores.

They swallow the atoms of all,

and belch a cloud of vapour

as black as their

countless hearts of liquid tar.

 

At first glance,

your pupils will dance,

dilating and collapsing,

like a neutron star

combusting in space.

 

Your lips will quiver in fear,

but not just fear, something deeper,

more fearful than fear, more primal,

more ingrained in the atoms of the cosmos.

 

True terror at the being

that stands mere feet

from where your heart echoes

its redundancy into the still air.

 

Your feet will shake,

before you collapse in pain from

an ache that didn't exist,

 

the view will mist, as your eyes

search for anything in the darkness

that really exists,

 

anything to remind you

that your reality

is not this void of emptiness.

 

But no.

You think in panicked handwriting,

it's not empty,

it's full of shapeless entities

that your brain just doesn't

know how to witness.

 

So, you slip deeper into a fit,

thrashing limbs crack and split

as your brain erupts inside your skull,

a meltdown

of your internal Chernobyl,

 

and as one final gasp

hits your lips,

a few last words slip.

 

They. Exist.