There they are again, like two crows cawing on the washing line.
The double twos come to me always; but they are most unwelcome.
Here, there and here again.
Their hunched arches prise my weary eyes open in the early hours when my heart pounds and I speak in tongues. Their light projects with an endless muted warning.
The omnipresent observe me with their beady eyes, watching all I do trapped from inside a sphere where all ways lead to nowhere. I see them looming above, transparent and magnified, pecking now and then. They chip away at my sanity.
They peek through curtains and perch on fences when they’re not swooping and stabbing against the watery sky.
22 here, 22 there.
They shriek with victory when the car overturned that night, dive bombing from above like Spitfires amidst the glass and sparks. They caw and cackle with every misfortune.
I no longer question ‘Why me?’ but beg for forgiveness.
My guilt is their food.
They are relentless, these two dark figures who take me from place to place with my unravelled thread in their beaks.
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