Eight Minutes / Ghosts

Eight minutes to write, then I have to flip the chicken on the grill. I'm always worried they'll be overcooked, or undercooked. It's the grill that's the problem, the tiny little grill with no airflow, got it for six bucks. I only liked it because it's TARDIS blue.
Anyway, I can't let this little blog die, clutch its stomach and keel over in pain. Pass away through neglect. Like all of my other little pet projects. I have a closet of dead pets(projects) their little bodies all crunchy and stiff. And the flies.
Been so busy lately, and I know that I don't exactly have a huge following on here, (don't be turned off if your reading this,) but that's not why I'm doing this. It's for me, ya know? A place to call my own, a space over which I have supreme control, and which only I can change. An eye in my constant mental storm. Amidst, you guessed it, the thunder and the rain.
I hope, dear reader, that you enjoy this poem. I have to flip the chicken.

Ghosts

Twenty thousand ghosts came running down the hall
Flying down the hall
A blue and white squall
Of spirits and demons and monsters and mists
All swirling and rushing toward me at the end
Their faces all tormented twisted and torn
Their clothes and their wings were all tattered and torn
With tooth and nail and claw and grin
All came rushing toward me at the end
Their eyes, oh the scorn, were bitter cold lights filled with a hatred so dark and forlorn
And the sound of those ghosts
Like the sea on the rocks, or the winds through the forests or the blood in your ears
The speed of these ghosts like a train in the night, through darkness and fog and the absence of light
Though it seemed like I waited for four hundred years
Then they fell on me
And silence
And ice
The stillness and quiet of a cold moonless night

End