X Marks The Spot

There's a running dialogue in my head.

She's four years old and telling me to run, but I can't.

Something wicked this way comes,
yet my feet are planted firmly in the cement.

Once when I was about her age, I awoke to a disturbing sight:

A spirit,
a sprite,
a light,
moving in the night.

It terrified me to the point of paralysis.

I somehow managed to pull the covers over my head and close my eyes,
but day turned into night and it appeared once more.


Palms sweaty,
heart racing,
chest pounding,
feet twitching.

I stood and reached out, inching closer and closer, until I passed right through it.

No cold sensation, or heart wrenching terror,
just relief.

The night was restored. 

Years passed,
and memories faded,
until one consequential night the specter returned.




The little girl explained to me that the shadow appears to the young to ignite despair and fear.. 

These senses are like words in a book, spelling out the date of ones expiration.

A henchmen, of the doomed.  

No longer could I writhe and wiggle free.

Fate made its mark from history.

Gone were the days of my safety blanket.

The hourglass had spit out it's last grain of sand and X marked the spot.