Poetry by Kendell Grubbs
Dilapidated darkness hollows the room.
The man is afloat in his bed.
His eyes meet with the neon clock
blinking back 1:47 A.M.
The man presses to move,
the gears in his mind falter.
He stares ahead,
on what has become on this twilight hour.
His eye draws to the corner of his room
a spider pitter patters across.
He is struck by the urge to crush it,
let its bloody remains seep into
his chewed ashen nails.
The spider meets his eye,
It scurries closer. The man waits.
In the night the spider is a shadow come alive.
Its black form rushes forth in malitentioned conquest.
The man’s consciousness shudders while his body is rigid stone.
He urges himself to move.
To not be the fly draped in soft white linens,
paralyzed as the spider graces its way up the web.
He is screaming in a void of his own mind.
The spider draws near.
The man’s eyes no longer see his bed
but chains of spider silk woven by his own hand.
The spider halts on the chest of the man.
His rapidly thumping heart pulsates through
the creature singing temptation through vibration.
In darkness, there is light
The silver glint of the spider’s fangs.
The man shuts his eyes.