There are creatures, we've known, living in the cracked sidewalks
of this broken city. They are waiting for us to walk just a little too slowly. Waiting for middle of the nights when there are only a single set of footsteps and the screaming of everything you could not do today
filling your heavy head. They will slide their stony fingers along the concrete surface, and you will stumble, catch yourself only to feel wholly defeated by a day
, they've managed to convince, was not meant for you. As only such creatures can, they will become the wind
flailing the trees along the fence wildly. Tiny branched fingers will sting the flesh of your cheek, push you towards the road, the dark past the streetlights
Whispers in the too quiet, echoing your end. A few more sharp lashes from trees you had loved in the light
and you are walking along the road, now. Too many noises inside your head, everything - even the wind, it would seem - pleading your swift departure.
There will be no great swelling of sound, no wailing mothers no horror-stricken faces. Only your own, blank stare, determined. You and the truck driver who cannot see so far into the night, who will not even notice as the creatures urge your step. A little further and they will have you, dry cracked tendrils reaching across the earth towards your last breath
A hard bump and a startled driver complains to himself, the poor road conditions in this horrible city. Another soul slips into the pavement, the stony fingers gathering the evidence of his life
into the cracks.
Some time, darlin', we will just disappear..