Owl Pellets Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

There are moths in the basement,
a cockroach on the ceiling —
the same wings, the same hardened shell,
in every terrace house on this damp street.

When you are quietly sleeping,
knowing something's still mulching into soil beneath the floorboards,
questioning every wrong you've ever done.

How you could have been more considerate,
could have done better.
It's the same for everyone —
you bite your nails down to the quick,
watched by anxious spiders,
a curtain mummified.
Discovering no one really understands you anymore,
and yet, you are loath to care.

So, let catastrophe reign —
I've seen it all before,
I'll survive it again,
less the burden of a sink full of dishes,
the bins overflowing with odious waste,
less the friendships that scatter like roaches
when the kitchen's fluorescent light comes on.

When I open my eyes, all these nightmares
are rolled together like owl pellets,
packed with bones, fur, feathers, and teeth —
what a vampire leaves behind,
flesh drained, eyes sunken,
like a fly caught in a spider's web,
desiccated when the curtain is drawn back —
though something still moves behind the heavy veil.