Revision – Trapped

by kholinar

Pen-tips stab and carve their script thoughtless
as tongues of fox-fire drift round my neck.
Our floor-boards ablaze with swampgas visions,
the clocks perch rigid, three hands held tall…

My guests eyes all-seeing, the ten sons of Argus
and piteous spectres peek past cold panes
but it’s no letter, or bright invitation;
just malign jibes in short, soft quatrains
and reads like a offer from arachnids
To sweetly mend my sweater