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  • Writer's pictureAutumn Isobel Smith


The things that I told you of are here

Things I spoke of in hushed whispers

Lest they become aware.

These things in the corners of my vision

Beckon me with wispy tendrils

Calling me to the darkness they infest.

Slinking forms slide across my walls

Watching me with cool malice

And yet they offer only temptation

And the shadow of a threat.

Do I go to them?

Do I heed their ancient summons?

For now, I resist.

But one night, I fear soon,

I may partake

And plunge into that unknown void.

They know this, they feel it,

Their chilled breath washes o’er my skin

As slumber overtakes me.

And they wait

Lurking in the edges of my eyes

For opportunity or my willing descent?

I suppose I shall find out.

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