Through corridors of whispered dread,

It slithers, silent, in hues of red.

A vortex of nightmares, a maze untold,

In its grasp, sanity's frailty sold.

Its whispers dance, a haunting tune,

Drawing souls to its dark cocoon.

A spiral dance, a twisted waltz,

Where reality bends and reason halts.

                                                                                                           

How would a melody describe itself when asked?

Does the hand own the stomach in any way?

I am not a "who" archivist...

I am a "WHAT"

A "who" requires a sense of identity I could never attain...

  Nothing is really.. real