Baskerville

An ode to a font

Pulsing—

Flesh drips.
Ichor pools.

Twitching muscles, pale tendons—
Strained. Taut. Ready to snap.

A breath, hot— too close.
Your shoulders coil like a spring.
Your neck, slick with fear.

Surfaces slick.
No grip.
No chance.

Run.

Heart thrashes against your ribs—
Dizzy.
Vision tunneling.

Dry lips crack—
Gasping, gulping, choking on air.
Teeth ache, ice-cold.

Darkness grip…