Poem #3

Their chilled fingers brush down my spine,
And I erupt into shivers.
The room is dark around me.
My eyes meet only shadow.
But there are breaths flitting through the air,
Some carrying baited, icy words that dance at the very edge of my hearing.
They duck away whenever I receive some meaning,
Leaving me alone, clueless, without the knowledge that would be key to my freedom.
So I remain a wanderer,
Searching for any solidity, a glimpse of light,
Or an escape from these shades that stalk me,
And taunt me with their cold whispers,
And their chilled fingertips.

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