i am the baying
of the wolves at
pre dawn when that
shiver trickles up
your spine.

i am the late hours,
the hunger
suppressed,
a fevered insomniac
hallucination.

i am the pealing
of the night
bells.

when that ray of sunlight
slithers its way through
the fissure in my
dystopian dome,
it is a most terrifying of miracles.

i am the lesser version
of your expectations,
not quite the right shape
and size to fit
in that paradigm
you aggrandize.
bestow upon me a betterment,
a kindness and I will
disappoint you.

feign a blame on vanity,
inaccurate and reluctant.