Little Devils

They swarm in corners, tiny claws on bone,
a whispering legion in the pulse and skin;
each one a mirror of the mind’s sharp ache,
collecting every tremor of my own,
and gnawing quietly where hope had been.
They squat upon the chest, unseen, obscene,
their murmur presses like a tide of flame,
and every thought I lift becomes their prey,
a festering delight they shape and claim.

I feel them crawl beneath the hair, the nail,
a thousand judgments filed against my name;
their wings beat hot against the hollowed brain.
They chant of error, folly, slow travail,
of wasted hours that only stain remain.
Each breath invites them further into vein,
and yet, perverse, I lean into the hive,
for every sting confirms I am alive,
and every prick reminds the mind to strive.

At night they ride the sinews of the skull,
a carousel of torment spinning fast;
their tiny laughter sticks behind my eyes.
I bend beneath the weight, yet cannot lull
the swarm that finds in memory its mast.
They teach the heart to measure grief, to last.
And though I long to silence, crush, and flee,
I sense in self-inflicted misery
the purest field where devils come to be.