A time parallel,
Contained in distorted, dimensions.
The prowler within lingers,
Stalking; soundlessly pacing,
Silently watching. Waiting.
Ousted by actuality.
Forbidden to enter its realms.
Forever to listen and observe, through a gossamer shroud.
Never to taste or touch.
The Prowler remains in its lair.
Hungry for its infliction of torment.
To mock and deride with disdain.
Savouring the anticipation of despair.
In the shadows, it dwells and as darkness descends,
It rises with a hateful smile of revenge.
As at last, it can feast.
As its gatekeeper, sleeps.