The stones are cold, the air is thick with dread, The last and fading echo of my cries is dead. I hear no wind, I see no ghostly light, Just scuttling in the walls that fill the night. At first, a whisper, just a single scratch, A needle-pointed sound I couldn't catch. But now it swells, a tide of claw and feet, A rhythm pulsing in the prison's heat. They gnaw the world away, beyond the door, I’ve heard them working on the cellar floor. They do not hate, they do not rage or rush, There is no fury in that toothy hush. Only a patience, vast and dark and deep, While in the gloom, their hungry legion sleep. But now they wake. I hear their chittering breath, A symphony of whispers, promising my death. They know my name, they trace it with their nails, They write their hunger in the wooden rails. The barrier is thinning, splintering weak, I hear a thousand tiny jaws that speak. They speak of flesh, of marrow, and of bone, A kingly feast for them to claim alone. No demon's face, no specter's ghastly stare, Just little gods of hunger, everywhere. The final timber cracks. A draft blows through. A sea of pinprick eyes, all black and true. They do not run, they simply start to flow, Into my cage, relentless, dark, and slow. The scratch, the crawl, the weight upon my chest, This is no nightmare put to final test. This is the end, in fur and twitching whisker, A final, nibbling, and eternal brisance.
