you do, you don’t, you go, you stay
it doesn’t matter either way
the game’s begun, you’re now the prey
and it’s too late, you chose to play

you stop, you think, you see, you hear
there’s something in the dark you fear
something distant, not yet clear
drawing quickly ever near

you shake, you scream, you run, or try
but can’t escape, it’s too close by
a silent prayer, you want to cry
but only meekly whimper “why…?”

a touch, a claw, a gasp, a dread
a moment more and you’ll be dead
but no, the cat’s not demon-bred
turns out you’re safely still in bed

your fault, you read, too late, you know
his dreary, dark portfolio
whose terrifying tales of woe
give rise to dreams conceived by poe


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