the world is slowly,
so slowly,
dying.
dying of life.
if a spider climbed your back,
grazed it's sticky
hands across your skin,
and chose a piece
of flesh,
one it found more juicy;
more tempting.
what would you do?
there is no,
"Oh yes Spiderman, keep going..."
because you do not feel a thing.
because you do not feel a thing.
the world is slowly
biting you, spreading poison,
but you do not notice.
you are asleep.
you are blind.
the bites are sharp and quick,
not many,
but enough.
it is a slow death.
