Intrusive
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the original makings or creation of "Cujo". All credit is due to Stephen King.
Yes, there stood I, and there sat I,
wrapped deep in fog and timothy,
looking at THE BOY, now what do I see?
Mountains of murder screaming to operate me.
"What's wrong, Cujo?", a voice of recognition
rings a small, blessed pound of mercy to petition
the lightning-strik'd cycle of normal course
where life and death, love and fear, begat from sublime source.
Endless movie in mind,
with flesh red shredded and bone white that grinds,
save the voice of THE BOY,
a nuance, a memory,
this rabid static nuisance inside my head,
reverses my form in rolling, speeding leaps,
highballing us farther into the fog.