Time’s Up

What is that presence I feel?

I can barely make the image, my mind reeling from the exertion, from crushing the wine glass in my hand.

Crystal shards glimmer and sting, long and dripping blood streams trickling to the floor, and though I’m content with my bottled rage, I feel the presence, agitating the moment.

Who are you? Is there something I can help you with?

I had been recollecting my thoughts, gnashing my teeth, by the memories of an icy hatred, when I realized I wasn’t alone.

And as the blood dried I felt the truth working its deathlike fingers around my heart.

Had the years of my volatile shame taken form, by the sound of a midnight clock?

Could I no longer stay the shadow that bore — that amorphous emotionless shape — the weight of my infinite sins?

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