They’re with me always,

Scuttling around in the mezzanine of my mind.

I know where they’ve been,

But not where they are;

Footprints in the patina,

Puffs of dust in the rust,

Denting, dimpling the ducts.

Sometimes I hear them,

Scraping around up there,

Flaking together

Their menacing machinations.

Sometimes I can almost guess

What they’re up to;

Dull clanging,

Sharp scritching in the rust –

Forging my thoughts into the shape

They want,

The purpose

They seek.

I could probably evict them,

If I ever ventured to the inner workings of myself,

But it’s scary up there.

The cobwebs hold the place together;

Remove one neurotic strand

And the whole place topples down

In a cloud of toxic dust

And repressed feelings.