Hands of Goth

Every now and then,
molecules of nightmare
short-circuit my neuroidal tablet.
A constant battle with my sewers
I keep fighting
and they keep taking the shapes
of deads and dreads.

I did not see the hand. I did not
see the eye, but I felt it
slowly skinning me to my coldest depths.

The shadow is
always on the prowl. The moment
you swerve, it pounds like a
pre-historic kill-machine to eat your velvet veils.