The thing

The despair in the air rose quickly

The thing that hid slickly

The itsy-bitsy thing that is prickly

The pitter-patter of the rain on my window

The sad, sorrowful gestured innuendo

Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep

My mind has this on repeat

It touches my skin and begins to eat

It looks in my eyes, but can it see?

No lips, eyes, mouth or strength

I can’t tell if it’s short or narrow in length

Does it breathe or have feet

Without it, will my life be incomplete?

I went back under my silk satin sheets

Then it moved and sat near my feet

“Will you cry aloud or speak?”

I said it faint, more so weak

‘Touch it, pick it up, or rub it’

Will it hurt? No… it shouldn’t