A needle pierces my neck.

It is sharp, insistent,

It drives deeper to my bone,

When it makes contact a chill shakes my frame.

I turn wildly and look around the moonlit street.

There is no one around.

No one like me in sight.

Only the dancing swirls that mock my consternation.

They wave and dance,

Moving with such precision that I know it is nothing short of purposeful.

The shadows are watching,

The shadows are moving,

The shadows are not shadows.

My mind bemoans these anaphoric phrases in my consciousness,

And I enter a state of pertubation.

I am strucken down by the stars with fear,

As they let the shadows the moon created come after me.

I can not run,

I can not suppress,

I can only wait.

Wait for this prolepsis to happen,

Brought on to me by the wicked woes of my mind,

And the merciless endeavor the moon befalls to hopeless men.