I can feel them.
Their knuckles caught in the doors I shut.
Their whispers from over my shoulder.
Their fingers caressing my neck.
They come from many places.
Sent by the vindictive and wickedly spiritual.
Stepping in at the darkest moments like wretched homecoming suprises.
Or simply as random acts of malice after too long spent wandering.
But I think mine came from those who came before me.
A grandfather marred by paranoia, bigotry, and wrath.
A grandmother who yearned for the want for tomorrow.
A grandfather of many, through many, yet a lover of none.
Nonetheless, I can't bring myself to be angry at my elder blood.
I know better than most the sickly sweet on their lips.
The hollow, festering, saddening feeling they leave in their wake.
And the guilt that keeps you coming back for just one more kiss.
How could I expect anyone to shake them?
For all my life I have seen them, but cannot attack them.
For much of my life I have known them, but cannot outwit them.
For a sliver of my life I have weakened them, but cannot destroy them.
Indeed, they have been at many bedsides.
Salivating over the last flicker of embers.
Unhinging their maws for the incoming souls.
Taking horrid satisfaction in their handiwork.
But, I give little heed to their longevity as I ponder this torment.
I know better than most how their power has been stripped from them.
I trust that their borrowed time is soon to be elapsed.
I see the shadow of the sword over their heads.
For though they loom above me, One looms above them.
An ancient, unfathomable, fearsome One.
One who lords over fires that never waver.
One who intends to feast on their screams.
So, I will rest in the shadows.
Casting their grips from my weary body.
Squeaking in gashes on their sides.
As I wait for the guillotine's drop.