Firefly

Some Spooky-Time Story-Telling

Photo by Caitlin Manning on Unsplash

Whispers.

I hear whispers.

Running up and down my spine.

Like shivers.

Like chills.

Like fingers of ice,

Molded over with clay,

Chewed on by mice,

Beckoning from the grave.

I have a sense of urgency.

I cannot move.

I cannot breathe.

I do not know what is required of me.

I would close my eyes,

But my eyes are gone.

All that is left is me,

The hint of me,

A paltry vapor,

Clinging to the bones

Of what I used to call

Me,

My body.

I would swoon,

But there is no one here to catch me,

If I fell,

I wouldn’t really smash into the ground

As there truly is none beneath me.

There is a quiet,

A hum,