Ripped from the wall, like muscle stripped of skin,
A grotesque shape thrashes with savage intent—
Vengeance not against time, but stagnation itself,
Its cry an absurdity, a proclamation of pain.

The sound pounds the air into submission,
Tempers my ears as iron meets the flame,
Grinds my thoughts into dust, scratches on glass—
All resistance futile, every effort the same.

Still as clouds on a memories moonlit night, I wait,
Watching as it lurches closer with mockery in its gait—
But the misshapen limbs, obscured by shadow,
Twist my mind from body, pulling them apart.

Is it motion, or the void where motion should be,
That contorts reality into something dark, sharp, divided?