La mort est mon lot

Sound sub-dued, beyond its twinning; The ridges of legs that glide across its thread of silk, spindling downward from the ceiling. It's body glistens for its silhouette; the perk of blue to sharpen the dark surrounding it. 

The spider glided more closely, from above her face. The dark of the room, and directed stimuli to distant sensory 

deprivation; It's legs lightly slung its webbing,  heightened sound like glass scraping metal shards - how it echos in the internally. 

The liquidation peels from him, onto each inch of thread that is shown, moving closer downward;  It's whiteness gleams. 

Tainted light does not dim it. 

The atmosphere is damp, It's sound is damper. 

He is large, a ball of fist to compare. Though he hangs, above  by small portion and simply swindles there. 

She could not be more sedate with an old friend again; He is charming this way. 

The conscious flashes the memory; 

Books; various of them lined to a high shelving. Old and withered; though sacred and purposeful. 

Movement, the many rows there are - books. 

They whisper, four of them; Huddled tightly. 

Young children, these boys. 

He hangs in reach, a hand lifted, he grips the fingers with the elongated of legs. 

Twirl him; amuse him; amuse her. 

A silhouette, to this child, young and frail. 

The slow of a shadow passing these books, hands extended to touch as each book passes by. 

They follow, the four shadings, quickly aligned after each other. 

His name echos the hallways that have deadened

"Vahtasyr", 

Twirl him harder, harsher; Defenselessly. Deep sigh exhales, it can't be helped. 

The blurs approach from the distance, sought over his shoulder closened. 

A calling of his name again; he turns, and a blur is cast forth scornfully. 

Thrown, it's body shapes and molds. 

Mid-air it perches, coils in that of a snake, for a snake it is. 

Its blackness to gleam tinting of blue, and the malevolence shown through crisped green of eyes; 

It's diamond chiseling, vicious skull. 

The hiss that escapes, like a high frequency of pitches that can not be humanly condoned. 

Reflex throws the hand upward to crush, the spider breaks and pours its black liquidation; 

Its body impacted like bones crumbled. 

Remains to dangle, the black fluid worn and seeps the flesh like mixture. 

She leaves from the bed, and its remains gone to blackened smoke that trails her movement. 

She write to elude the genetic cast of her and its morbidity she is worn to. 

                                                                              January 16th

He stands mockingly to my being, that harboring of gaps that they can not fix. 

I've gone ill and won't be back again; I used to want a saving - though, it's become a craving. 

I shake with dread, and limbs go stiff to presence, yet I thrive for it. 

I am not whole, because what it is whole stands there to my left. 

I made him painfully, he will shape me morbidly. 

They taunt with white coats and medicational forms, 

I am diseased; I am the disease. 

He's there, I do know - stood with the silhouette of the curvature about his back, so tall 

and slender, he is, decrepit. 

His lengthy of hair pours fluid, water drenched yet fuming blackened steam that carries 

no warmth.  She glances away from him, to write and it is felt, 

the elongated of white sharp points surface in beneath view to touch the locks of her jaw. 

He penetrates the skin of her neck, though it is with no pain. 

Inaccessible to feel. 

His skin there to hers fuses, lightly - slowly. 

Hand pressed firmly to the throat that blends then, until he is absorbed. 

Smoke trails as the remaining of this absorption where he attends to his home again; 

the cellar that is found in this under-conscious. 

He goes there and the writing ceases, the light vanquished and dark again, 

where she is.