It Lurks

There is something that moves beneath the skin of the world, A presence older than the shadows, darker than the night. It does not belong to the living or the dead, Yet it feasts on both, wearing their faces like masks.No name can tether it, no words can bind it, For its tongue is woven from the silence between heartbeats. Its eyes are not seen, yet you feel them, Lurking in the corner of your vision, where the darkness thickens. It is the forgotten whisper in an empty room, The scent of decay before the storm. It crawls with patience, slow as a funeral march, Drawing closer each time you turn your back.It never speaks, only listens. To your breath, your pulse, your dread. It waits for the moment when you know it is there— And then it is too late.