Under the cover of night,
none see the lone figure.
In shadows hidden safely,
awaiting; eyes ever watchful.
Just before midnight,
the owl hoots.
Then all is quiet.
The lone figure watches, hidden.
A hiss is heard on the sidewalk.
Fire shoots up from the cracks.
Some call it the witching hour.
The last chime fades; it’s midnight.
Eyes stare as fire spirals
from the cracks below ground.
The sidewalk alight; nothing beyond.
Empty darkness; shadows lost.
From above a blade falls
cutting into the road.
Then catapults into the air.
To drop again, to cut again.
Fear flickers in those eyes.
Crouching more into the shadows.
The lone figure feels their pain.
As screams are heard from below.
Each minute is an eternity.
Screams echo in darkness.
Fire spirals; the blade cuts.
The lone figure can only watch.
A living nightmare of hell?
Or a glimpse into the future.
It fades as the clock strikes one.
With a cry the lone figure falls.
By C.E. Pereira
(26-5-2018)
