The needle.

A syringe, held to my head,

the needle pinching the skin, but

not yet breaking.


Large carnivorous hands, veiny

in their tenacious anger,

hold a firm grip on

the plunger full

of foggy mayhem, swimming

in the body

of the needle like a

like a snake, anxious

and angry.


One sharp stab, the hands

brace, the needle

stings, my temple



I hear my skull crack. I feel

the blood trickle


It fills my ears,

and now I’m deaf.


The plunger is pushed


I feel the fog seep in. I see it

fill my eyes

until it’s all I can see

and now I’m blind.


I don’t scream.

I don’t struggle.

The fog is stronger than I am.

As are the hands, blue

veins still pop from rough skin,

as they push more and

more fog deeper

and deeper



The needle is gone.


The hands now rest

gently, but ever present,

around my neck.

The fog is everywhere. I hate

and fear it, but am


against it.

Any attempt at

freedom, and the hands

would surely tighten their grasp.


I am paralysed.

Another victim to the fog.

A prisoner of the hands

with no face.


Like a ghosts, I stalk

blindly through the world.

Invisible to those

who see clearly

with necks clean

and faces dry.