They Writhe Within



All rats crawl, they lurk in silence,

nibble my eyelids as I sleep,

claws scratch, click, the sounds of violence,

where corpses cry and ceilings seep

(somewhere deep below the earth)

where nightmares screech while giving birth

and, grinning, grind my skin to shreds;

where demons cackle, screaming mirth

and thousands writhe in muddy beds

(and scream, though screams their coffins quell.)

I try to flee, but other Hells

are only lurking up above:

a graveyard filled with ringing bells,

a bone-cage holds a dying dove

(it spreads disease, it's filthy, vile.)

I drip dark mud, blood down the aisle,

wrists chafed by chains, they call me sick;

I cut my lips into a smile,

or hear their claws go scratch and click

(those bearers of my final curse)

through nightmares that grow worse and worse,

they circle like the buzzing flies;

I sip black bile to ease my thirst,

they smell my tears, my milky eyes

(which hold the memories of my sins.)

They chew through wood with teeth of tin

to further mar my final "rest."

They burrow through my rotten skin

and in the darkness, make their nest.

(They writhe within.)