Stream of consciousness with no prompting whatsoever. Nonsensical, disturbing, vaguely accusing. Like its your fault the universe is so crazy. Maybe so. Lovecraftian overtones. Laced by mild sleep deprivation. Instilling the need to speak in clipped not-sentences and refuse to explain oneself.
Something preternatural waits
On the borderland between here
Shapes move where shapes shouldn't be
Touching evening penumbra on the floor
Look away, don't let them know you see
Lie down and close your eyes.
Fogging windows of perception
Quantum nightmares tear their holes
In a fabric knitted carelessly
Try not to look, to think
But the ones outside can always tell
Its behind me
Coiling and uncoiling
Its snares at the ready
Urging me to eat
The spoiled fruit from the tree of insanity
Travels like smoke, like words
Embracing the lost and unwary
Taking over, thought by thought
Changing white to black
With just one brush
The world is merely a blank canvas
In what passes for hands
We are not the artists,
But the tools and the paint.
Its behind you
Cacophonous, laughing voicelessly
Across fire-kissed earth
To pull you close
And whisper, whisper
Of what shouldn't exist, shouldn't be
But is...because of you.