Whysteria: Poetry from a Cursed Box

Spiders in the Museum

There was a man,
once, in my dream
who appeared to me
in a dark museum.
Lights glowed
from behind
foam statues;
alas, not made of stone
(shallow art.)

He owned the museum,
and put a sign
on the door
that no more artists
were allowed.

He stood in the center,
(Only him,) wondering
what he could make real
from a kaleidoscope
of falsehoods.

He lost his fortune
in the museum.
Didn't matter;
he never cared for it.
Where fortune used to be,
gray statues with black oil
leaked from their eyes
and stared at him.
Scared him.

There are no mirrors
in here.
Only lies
and half-truths,
and oil-eyed statues.
He sees himself in them.

He hyperventilates.
He must destroy
this cursed museum,
or he will be locked inside,
with no one to love him,
and no one to trust.

If he destroys it,
he will be seen as a hero,
so no lost soul
can get stuck here again.

He releases 10,000 spiders.
The bites are venomous,
though others,
only painful.

There are so many,
that I flee.

But he is stuck there
with the spiders.
They poison his mind,
and only crawl
up the walls.
They haven't done their job;
the museum still stands,
but the oil-eyed statues
are now
connected
by spiderweb.

The only people
who join him now
are those whose souls
are necrotic.

It would be better
to hole himself away
until the spiders
are out of food.

But spiders
can feed forever
on zombies.

While the living outside
utter Noel in pity,
he wastes his time dying
for lies
where the venomous spiders
thrive.