From the stem of the brain comes spiders
Already dead and ground
Into black arachnid paste
Filling up a small white polystyrene cup

Precariously balanced atop
A faux wood computer desk
2ft from the ground and shoved in
The corner of a dingy, sterile office space

Twelve floors up and three streets from wherever
Seemingly, and willingly
Standing still, waiting, to be thrown
Across the room and crushed

By the thick rubber so(u)le of conscience
Peering into the nebula of hot exhume
Each grain of plastic simultaneously
Destroying and creating infinite space
As the bigger pieces shard sporadically.

It's cold tonight
Breath could be seen in the damp
Air of every extending cubicle
If only anyone were there
To see such a thing...

Begging for a question could only it be asked
Obscurity fills the halls and laughs
Across the windows, creating an organic
Incandescent glow, which broods
Around the ankles...

But only to those who are there...or were

The angles, the geometry
Of this vast open space - Seem to bend
When not observed, as if omni-present
And transformative - Shaping itself to jest
With the known & unknown
This midnight city is hot, buttery and populated

But stretching down, splaying -
The idea, the presence, the cold

Never seems to leak into the real world
Not even when a window opens by itself
And an outside wind rushes in,
It is escorted without even the softest sombre

All that is left is foundations creaking
In the high winds, as the battered bricks cry,
Yet this seems to only be heard from the outside
As the air settles, the structure sags
And shifts with every push - spinning almost
From under itself

Yet, we cannot see this or feel it...