Kafkaesque (minor rewrite from my happy halloween thread)

The light
threw shadows on the wall,
a flickering of this or that,
perhaps an unhinged book,
a sheet or shroud,
waiting to be washed.

Kafka appeared to me that night
in metamorphosis,
scurrying about the dirt,
expressionless, expressionist,
in giant silhouette,
among the buildings
of a gyroscope world.

Kafka is the bogeyman children,
more fearsome
than any childhood fiction.