In a room thick with darkness,

an inky, stirring starkness,

you see the form—four corners,

like a block of night but starless.

—–

On the far wall of the room,

a window of light is burning.

It makes all the shadows dance;

the floor seems as if it’s churning.

—–

The room is thick with darkness, still,

for the window light does nothing.

Because it’s not a floor beneath you.

It’s a thousand spiders running.

—–

The swarm of spiders creep on all,

the walls are hidden from view.

The door is black as the window now,

and you’re crawling with spiders, too!