They crawled on walls, then faded from view,
disappeared, and nothing was disturbed.
No mucus was left on chipping paint,
and no venom had threatened to pierce my skin.
Spiders—hallucinatory, were dead but living,
and crawling through neurons of imagination.
Stupidly found in an insect’s dream,
I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
I awoke the next day relieved and groggy,
barely revived from dreams of death.
Poisoned by curiosity again,
it had left my veins, and the sun shone bright.