The troubled night carries too many warnings of mortality to be ignored.
There are horses kept unfed in refrigerators, clambering to get free.
Some will be found emaciated.
Punishment will be meted in an ingenious and terrifying manner.
Flowers will turn to doorknobs.
Stooping to smell will reveal the pungent scent of fingerprints.
Dreams to befuddle Satan.
Fears not be wished upon a hated enemy.
The steps are steep.
The rooms without walls.
Pictures hang and grin with howling mouths.
What would be the fruit of seed tilled in these fields?
If that hunted figure, racing so slowly after the final train, is you,
Whose eyes watch the train?