thedailyinquisition

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It Comes

I feel its hand upon me.

It stands in the void, shapeless and devout of position.

I stare it down, it does not waver.

I yell for it to leave, it does not heed my warning.

When I go, it will devour me.

It rests upon my bed, impersonating a loved one.

Although it has no face, it stares at me ominously.

Although it has no soul, I can feel its desire.

It waits because it must.

It can no more falter from its course than a bird can falter from song.

I let it take me.

Not because I do not fear, nor because I am ready.

I go because it is time.

Its warmth invites me in.

Its embrace tears me away.

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