Monster of the Id

Andy

Its defining feature is invisible,
A fringe beyond which we cannot pass,
And a boundary from which nothing can emerge.

Sound silently fades
To the stifled gasp of intensified realization,
Of bated breath swallowed whole by heightened fear.

Time stands still and midnight yields,
Baleful eyes blush red like coals, 
Darkening, they fix on you from the corner of the room.

The horizon distends,
Undulating forward, a conflict of barely restrained menace advances,
Marking the congruence between existence and oblivion.

It hungers,
And a cruel wanting you can now feel
Washes over you like a lover’s caress.

A seductive miasma of medusa intent,
Freezing you to stone,
Daring you to surrender that last breath you think is safe within you.

Fighting against the cold sweat
That drains your ability to function rationally,
You kid yourself, it’s not really there.

And against all hope,
You grope for the one thing that just might save you,
The light switch.

A blinding conflagration erupts.
Tendrils of insidious craving recoil,
Folding in on themselves until only an echo remains.

Time resumes,
Reality replaces imagination,
And doubt recedes behind the veil.

You exhale at last, in relief,
Thankful and yet embarrassed by your overreaction,
It was all in my mind.

But still you check the corners, just in case.
And I don’t blame you,
For the monster of the Id is patient.