There’s something in the fog,
it can only be seen in the eye of the blind man
but I know that it’s there,
taunting me,
challenging me to bring it to the light.
Each line I write
makes it writhe in pain;
my mind is the instrument of its demise.
It curses my name,
threatening to devour me.
Eventually it will,
but I have many faces;
it cannot devour them all.
O great Nothing…
you will perish at our hand.