Chilled Visions

[Law of Loud]

Such are the strange trappings of the imagination that, in this late hour, one might yet chase after specters ever so blindly as a fool. For restless hours their pale knockings rouse my curiosity, and concieve a nervious anxiety all their own. Then as might be predicted by a childhood rhyme, their haunt is set loose and upon me, their icy fingers plunging into my soul and melting in my eyes. Yet not only do these phantoms haunt me, but so do I rightfully terrorize myself. It was my solemn vow to not seek out such wisps, before they stood beside me on their own accord. And yet here do I tread now, lost of my own vanity in the perpetual shadows. Alas it is my fault alone that I do betray myself so, and so do I feel the ice burn ever so cold. For myself do these icy fingers tear my heart twice, and for God do I plunge this dagger thrice. The knocking is ringing and ever so loud. The phantoms are haunting and shrieking in their pitched voices that so match what draws my ire. These pale knockings flood my mind in innuendo ever so mired. Ignore them, I do recant to myself, not in myself, but in them.