The Rest-Day War

I.

Haphazard hairs and lost lashes,

Tumbleweeds of dust roll passed as

Grime grips ghastly to the glass

As long lethargic lines and gushing gashes.

A Spider has a home

That corner ̶ it’s always prone.

Cleanly cut, a home within home,

Unwanted, unnerving, chill to the bone.

Undead sapphire houseflies flitter,

Clinging to a short life which now sputters.

They litter the crags, crevasses, and corners

̶ The house is full of dead filler.

Countless cells

Raise countless bells

Beautiful unseen bells in minds and lips that then yell,

̶ Implore to wash, brush, toss, thrust ̶ quickly quell!

II.

A hero finally emerges in the morning

Tall, dark, and handsome, amid the mourning.

Sweeps and swipes, dust-bails and hairs fawning

Husbandly hands work with strength…and yawning

An intruder Spider is no longer

I swear each time It’s destroyed harder.

Yet, It always comes back and homes and hoarders

It’s rooms are somehow always cleaner.

Houseflies have become trashflies

Sucked from undead paradigms

Into a blackhole of hair, cells, and dirt that vie

Never to be seen again ̶ loose lies…

The floor is again wiped clean as can be

The glass no longer spotted ubiquitously

The carpet is immaculately reconceived

The invaders have been torn asunder… if you believe.