The Sound

It renders me incapable to respond. and I, being already out of energy then, am forced to stop.

It is the driving force, and so spikes adrenaline, and so fills the mouth, that rancid taste taking over, holding fast.

It is black and cold and dark and whole yet empty at the same time, because it means something, represents another thing.

It expands and covers all things, sweeps through, with whispy tendrils curling like wivked and pointed fingers,

curling and pinching at the ears of its victims, it is in this way that it takes hold.

By the ears, it does take hold.

Crackles and sizzles as a fire is set in the deepest part of every unfortunate soul, a deep lifeless entity, choking its victims.

They suffer. They cry. They wring their hands and claw at the invisible horror, coming away with it caked under their nails,

yet unharmed.

And they, we, I am tortured by it.

The sound.

Poetry Slam: 

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