it creeps in through the corners
through the places where walls and ceiling meet
where the floorboards creak
and drafts of icy breath stroke your neck.

it creeps up through the carpet
through the the places where rugs cover the old oak floors
where grandmother's crocheted mat is getting worn
and little dusties hide from the harsh daylight.

it crawls out from inbetween your teeth
between the lips and tongue and the molars that fell out
and now the dry, empty cavity of your mouth
hangs sallow and barren.