It begins with a tremor,
the slightest ripple in the wind.

It seeps through your vision, spreading
like watery paint through canvas.

Air rumbles, ground shifts, bolts spring
and the lights appear, sparking in the dark.
And then it comes – a clumsy stream of
blurred shadows and shrieking calls, scouring grit and smog across your cheeks.

Blank figures tremble within, flashed
between
your own shivering image.

Your heart pounds,
eyes filled with a coalescence of light

and then it goes, trailing tendrils of
stolen breaths and empty hopes in its wake.