The hate. It rages;

burns my shackles to reality

until I am no longer bound.

 

So I whither and shrink and hide,

like an arachnid,

in fear of being crushed,

slips underneath a door frame.

 

In hopes of escape,

from the descending shadows my flames create,

I hide.

I run.

I fall.

 

And every line I write

is a web I shoot.

Hoping to grab, grasp and clutch reality

So as to save my soul

from the abysmal, bottomless black.

 

Before my eighth and final leg sprouts

And it’s too late to turn back.

Before I reside evermore in a web of façade and lies

Before I consume people

as if they were flies.