Door
Through his dimming awareness of the passage of time, a door would open, then steps. A voice, familiar and repulsive to his ears, would speak to him. The words, like his knowledge of the world, became less important and more like dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight. But the door kept opening, the words still came, and the door would shut again. Day after day, grayness into dark, dark into blue awakening.
After a time, the door opened and the words were brief and unemotional. He lay there, a shining, twisted slug of his former self. The door closed.
He heard the dust motes in the sunlight, the universe swirring above him, and his slow, slow breathing. The door was there, and he begged it to open again, just once more, just once before he crept into gray stillness. It refused, even in his dreams, which were flimsy rags of thought betraying nothing more than a dying man’s last wish for a door to obey.
That was my attempt to write in the poetry prose style of Thomas Wiloch, a writer a friend of mine turned me on to that I absolutely love. He lives in Michigan and he probably thinks I'm stalking him right now, but you know, if he didn't like the fruit basket I left on his porch then that's not my problem. I'm kidding, of course - I gave up stalking a long time ago, now that I have the internet to harass strangers.
Anyway, check him out if you're interested in some deliciously creepy stuff. He has this way of making your skin crawl right at the end of each story. I love it! http://www.codeschaos.0catch.com/