Burnt Toast Cuttlefish

What is in my head?
Scurrying roaches of thought lurking beneath
The floorboards damp and moldy
They hide themselves where the twisted wood
Has pushed too hard against itself
And splintered into tectonic phalanxes
Inside the walls, they crawl atop each other
Gasping for the stagnant air
Squirming under mingling limbs
And retching into the blackness

The shadows creak along the floor
And find a lonely, vacant chair
Whose arms and legs of spiraled oak
Are crisply rotting into the earth
The silent watchman of a world in decay
A shackled soul asleep in a ghost town

From the darkest corner comes a haunting rasp
Choking the atmosphere of this dead space
An ethereal whisper echoing through the darkness
As audible as the dull ache of footsteps
Trudging against the hardwoods
Just before fading into nothingness,
The voice sorrowfully breathes
“I’m watching”