Under your feet, under the floor it sits.

 

Flicking its huge wings, wings in bits.

 

Mother of ghouls,

 

Eater of graves.

 

Over your face it creeps-as you sleep.

 

Gorgeous dusty browns,

 

Soft feelers

 

With its shedding it drowns.

 

The myth of a city,

 

Like a great moth of pity,

 

It sits with the old-smelling of mould

 

And keeps them cosy.

 

It kisses the sacred soil as it snakes,

 

Leaving skull eggs for what it takes.

 

Always silent, not a noise,

 

Always secret, hiding scattered toys.