The Hollow Bend

The street curved where it shouldn’t bend,
a narrow path that had no end.
The houses leaned, the windows stared,
as if they knew I wasn’t spared.

The moon hung low, its face askew,
a crooked smile the night once drew.
My footsteps echoed, sharp and near—
until I knew what I should fear.

For every sound I made was met,
by one that lagged, a half-step set.
Not mine, not mine—yet close behind,
a shadow stitched into my spine.

The ground was slanted, cold, untrue,
the world was shifting out of view.
And forward felt less like escape,
than walking into something’s shape.