Panic

It's the hushing whisper of
What could be
What used to be
What is
It lurks in reflective things
But refuses to let itself
Shimmer.

Look at it,
It seeps into your
Eyes like the spilling over
Of your inky
Pupils
It follows you, silently.

It breeds in the fury of
Burning thoughts
And creep on a mind that begs
The churning to-
Stop.
Telegram from a panicked hand
Shredding the papers til only sand
Run rampant as your pages
Unfurl
Nothing more than a
Fluttered girl.