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The Abeying Nightmare

 In darksome advantage, nightmarish advance, the mysterious figure, imminent, cloaked and uncommon, soggy when crunchy was expected, sought me, timelessly chased me, beckoning with moment and meaning, across deserts and desolations, thru nights and darker nights, amidst starless exhaust and the crumbs of commodity, till finally, as all suns went dark, all sons of the trenchant fathering, the wasted clock tower moaning one last peel, and terror could only be semaphore and true, like budget cuts and debt ceiling, the figure caught me, stopped me, a father of invoice and remit now, the sepulchral voice of ghostly dark nuance, gaggingly ghastly, a scram and depopulation like a thousand wobbling screams tho silent as a toad's grave, towering over me, an in opportune skyscraper in colloquy with destitution, with jet black eyes and noisome licorice abatement, bony skeletal hand extended towards me, j'accuse and oh my god, holding, proffering, like the most last of last rites, there before me, pale and wraithlike, the hand’s burden, a pair of socks. Shee-it, I had forgotten my socks!

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