Arachnophobia

If you have a particular fear of spiders, you might do better with a different poem

How I detest the conductor sitting upon her throne

Waving her hands on whims and simple machinations

She is deaf to the grime between her fingertips

She jerks her hands like a toy about to break,

and I'm still tied to him, through it all

Demanded to pluck out of harmony, festering wounds

Spiders run across my tired flesh and bone

Scurrying to my innards, burrowing and burning my nerves

Eggs clotting my veins, choking my body of life and breathe

Toxins corroding my blood to a thin paste, sickening my skin

Lungs webbed and collapsing, wheezing for desperate life

A sack of filth and horrid abomination

How I hate the woman who keeps playing me like this

Her greasy fingers down my throat, playing my bones for percussion

How I hated that conductor, no meaning in her means

I stand supreme now, I see myself flying our dear symphony

I conduct with confidence and intent, weaving ourselves through our song

But I now stand with a new set of grinding pestilence

Fools with hardly the understanding to keep themselves upright

Fracturing the tone, cracking the web we've constructed

They play it brutishly, ripping the veins from the instrument

They see not the sweet rapture of the instrument

Only it's sickening habit of grinding the mind to a pulp

How I wish I could play those instruments

But I must hold ourselves in check

Lest we consume ourselves in melody and beat

But only if I could play all these sweet pious things before me

I'm quite envious of those with more than two hands

How easy it must be if you could simply play for yourself

An arachnid construct who could enchant even the deaf in her display

Silent only for her saccharine melody

What a taint, but honeyed offer

If I only could play this symphony of one