According to the manuals,
they are everywhere.
How is it, then, that I
cannot see them?

Under my feet,
in the silent corners,
under the stairs,
in the crowded common rooms,
I search;
and find nothing.

But, when I speak,
what is it that crawls
along the fissures of my tongue
towards the light?

The padding of feet,
snapping of clickers;
the reaching out into the void
with silken webs,
multiple eyes
and subtle poisons?

And, when I listen,
what is it that glistens,
floating across the void
to grasp and bind
and, with such circumspection,
transfer another dying image
to the collection
in my mind?

Ah yes! My mind,
the internal
(and eternal)
darkness of the blind.
That’s where they breed
and infiltrate their eggs,
which incubate in silk cocoons,
cossetted, nourished by a myriad
wayward thoughts,
waiting to hatch.

To hatch
and emigrate
and lie in wait
and catch

more prey.


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