there is a
constant motion
dark things flit
at the edge of
ny vision
a spider bite
glares at me
angry and red
i do not scratch
i do not move
as small streaks
skitter about
i snap my head
only for them to vanish
back into the
shadows once more
am i mad
disassociating
or have the insects
taken over
mindlessly sniffing
always hungering
innumerous
clamoring for more
if i sit
too still
will they crawl
upon me
consume me
lay their eggs
in my flesh
while i am forced
to incubate
the writhing horde

it is cold
the birds squawk
no harmony
just a sea of
incumbent legs
silently climbing
and dischordiant
whistles outside
there is no sun
only the swarm
crushed carapaces
floating in coffee