something worse

there are strings that cross my path.

they are gray and wispy, barely ankle high

and yet i step around them carefully.

i have never seen them move alone

but i know what lives and dies.

and these do neither.

there is a difference of

death's familiar spider-like hands

and these gray, reaching things

that catch at my shoes and drag past

my legs, with no end to their

length and numbers.

they are seen and never heard.

and i have to confess that i

prefer death, over thousands of pairs,

each crossing the other in still air.

death is a kinder soul

and one i know through dread.

these gray strings killed my friend.

now i walk as careful as i can,

because if the strings shake or

god forbid, one of them breaks.

you'd better stay the fuck away

or pray that it already ate.