Kingdom Of The Spiders Poem by Ernest Hilbert

It's pitch black and pissing down so hard
You see nothing but tearful shards of light.
You start to feel like your life's an anchor
In a wet box. Lift it. The ATM's bright
Screen beeps, pitiless, displays a message for
Insufficient Funds, and spits the plastic card
Back out with a click. The songs you believed
Were ugly or stupid have grown beautifully
In you, because you have, too. The modest
House in which you slept, where you received
Junk mail, what you kept and dutifully
Cleaned and considered your own address
Is theirs, of course. You knew that all along.
Such mortifications were meant to end
At some point, magically on some birthday,
Some hopeful hour in the past, long
Ago, but they linger, unnerving, attend
Like strange men who simply arrived one day,
Who aren't welcome to stay but won't leave.
Nothing will grow better or go right, it seems,
But you can still cling to some comfort.
It will end. Not soon. Eventually.
Your love weeps all night. At dawn, she screams.
You can't know what designs more pain might bring.
Cold streets fill with crowds. You want to fight.
You spit and shout. In daydreams you sing.