There's a banshee caught in the cobwebs, ringing like a temple bell and dripping malice like a
broken roof,
Wrapping herself in arachnid silk, like a cloak of opulence that begets no envy,
Turning heavenward in defiance.
She brings omens to angels, sticks needles in the throats of choristers,
She runs her fingers through harp-strings, like scissors through taut thread,
And she snaps them like spines-
Heaven has always been too weak.
She never lets the guardians speak as she bends gold and blackens clouds,
As the stairway to earth shatters like a wine glass at the mercy of echoes leaving fang-bitten
lips,
Of a voice that brings bullet holes.
There's a banshee caught in the cobwebs, making a crime scene of my superstitions and a
genocide of my mind,
One that Fate has no part in and Destiny has no stake in.
She stands at the edge of my bed and watches as I try to tear away her illusions,
As I try to exorcize her from the cavity in my chest that overflows with perdition.
She manifests malevolence into the atmosphere, willing the laws of physics to bend around her,
to embalm her like a living thing,
For she is a nightmare that aches to be real.
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