Spine
"A haunting Specter's Presence, a Chill that's not Benign"
In the hollow of the night, where shadows writhe and creep,
There lies a tale of terror that awakens those who sleep.
A whisper in the darkness, a shiver down the spine,
A haunting specter's presence, a chill that's not benign.
Through corridors of memory, where echoes softly tread,
Lurks the essence of a nightmare, its tendrils widely spread.
The spine, a winding stairway, where fear ascends and grows,
Each step a hesitation, where dread and wonder flows.
In moonlit gloom, where a secrets bloom, and specters softly sigh,
The spine of dread unravels, beneath the midnight sky.
About the Creator
Isra
Versatile writer skilled in both tale & stories. Captivate readers with engaging content & immersive narratives. Passionate about informing, inspiring, & entertaining through words.
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181 Keeping Watch
Each day she watched through her window. Watched? Perhaps an exaggeration: a monochromatic nuclear aftermath remaining of the world, blurring into a blindness--loss of contrast and depth of field. Achromatic aberrations displayed a waste-scape stratified in grays.
By Gerard DiLeo7 days ago in Fiction
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