The worst is what you cannot see.
When bitter undead hands, outstretched,
grope from the darkness of your bedroom floor,
madness whispers in your ear, and your heart
closes, stops. Beats not, though you live.

The banality of the hands, somewhere
in memory, stops your mind.
The only anguishable thing's the soul:
octupus tentacles (identity) torn away
in strips, from a side of beef.

The unseen force wounds more than the wind
which, at least, blows branches, strokes leaves--
hidden hands harm no one else.
Shadowed fingers probe, clumsy, estranged
by your own body's familiarity
and pull, dripping, your essence from the hole
punched by the awl of the hands
you should never have to feel--

the warmth of blood, the searing pain,
your eyes' damp brood, the burning scene;
your silent screams that echo in the dark
and amplify until you can but break.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Mayan, in the year 309 AF.