Two in shakes in-between waves of panic.
Chits chatter with a three in skipping measure plays.
Electric four shocks that drag with taste.
Weight shift throws forward, crash in fives.
High-pitch ear sharps in seven of three and fours.
Nines by odd singing spasms in two suspenses endless—that add into
one shock atop of five throws.
The eleven with skips and shakes, into an eleven drum firing in
chest.
Thirteen with seizures of seven heart spasms and arch-back clonic
throws in five.
The noises scattering in punches, drags, and ripping of hair, their blunts beating across a yellow lit hallway are odd in meter of uncanny déjà vu, bizarre with certainty of reference sights; seeing it burns through the head and gut like uncertainty. The future sat on the one’s soul, and the soul is scorched with sears of revelation’s branding.
Dead ends.