When infantile eight-legged freaks attack,
I do not feel remorse that my bed is
littered with their microscopic corpses.

still they live.

Emerging during slumber,
my mind’s eye sees them creating
intricate works of art

across my nose, ears and mouth.

I see them using their precious silk ribbons,
to repel down my throat.

Where they will continue to spin insanity,
forever binding everything in the ether of my soul
to inconsequential, everlasting
madness.

“slumber seeks companionship from horror”

screams the tiny freaks as they squint their
twenty three eyes.

I cannot help but wonder if they are ancient windows
to twenty three tortured eight-legged souls.

Their tiny bodies are continually crushed between
fragile fingers.
a single ****** will not suffice.

I will never leave this waking realm
until my genocidal tendencies,
have been fulfilled.

Every infantile eight-legged freak must perish.