What
force unholy
hides
in darkest
corner
of a stuffy
closet?

The One
concealed
beneath
the veil
of narrative.
You see me
when they
pause it.

The is it you?
Or is it them?
Or is it me?
Is it the smoke
that’s in the air?

Or mirror-loop
of threads that
wind in knots of
self-recursion?