by Nick Gisburne
A ghost controls the spiders in my brain.
He feeds upon the wicked work they do.
The nature of his plan for me is plain:
He comes to steal the memory of you.
I feel the tug, the tightness of the web,
The sticky silk, the presence, pulling tight,
And, in a fearful, vulnerable ebb,
The ghost himself speaks openly, with spite.
He promises the misery will end
The moment I begin to bleed your soul.
If not, his pawns, his parasites, will bend
My sanity and crush me into coal.
But I am strong, with spiders of my own,
A gift my foolish ghost will soon be shown.
