four in the morning

wee hour lamentation

it's four in the morning,
outside, walking down a cold dark alley.
alone in the fog,
when most are asleep, and the rest are dead.
a strange pain writhes in your chest
as a halo draws breath from a dim black light.
standing fast, but for a moment, before being snuffed out
by a bone chilling bolt of fear.
the dreadful feeling corrupts your composure,
and your heart skips a beat.
sensing something from behind, something from beyond
you slowly begin to turn,
terrified at first, then paralyzed,
your scream fails to escape,
doomed in mute nostril agony.
It's four in the morning,
and you see yourself outside, walking down a cold dark alley
alone in the fog, when most are asleep, and the rest are dead,
and you wonder...
which am I?