Cursed dice rolls stare back at you.
Vines grow all across the walls of the alley,
and seem to grip things tighter
when you grit your teeth.
Cold swords unconstrained by sheaths
sever fingers when they linger too close
to the legs of women leaning defiantly
against the light posts.
Digits slither on the ground still laced
with electric intention, splashing momentarily
in puddles of blood.
You never try to mention what you see
based on the tenants carved in a tree,
that waits, imposing itself,
so high above the city.
Dragging distorted faces across brick walls
to get better looks at the shapes of their skulls.
It turns out they, mostly, all look pretty similar.
Teleporting Typewriter 