Gripped
Arrested by the night, I lay upon death’s door, For The Egg looms evermore. Through portal of wood, its eye watches, libertine, condemning me to its guillotine. In suit and socks, its baldness shuffles across the rug, craving my neck’s hug (a lover roughly fucked). Into featureless flesh I stare, hands of veiny plaster rob my air. In the pitch I wail, alone, yet too in company, met only with parsimony. Come first crow, The Egg (its touch) leaves loneliness, And I'm left with only restfulness.
Reading this was like getting assaulted by a Robert Eggers creature, in a good way of course. Probably the “Come first crow” line sounding like something ol’ Thomas Wake would say, plus the Nosferatu energy of this esoteric entity (but with the baldness of the original, lol).