It Crawls

In the hush of night, where shadows stir,

Creeps a mass of matted fur.

It moves alone, a silent beast,

Neither alive, nor quite deceased.

Soft and thick, like any pelt,

But strange and wrong, not warmth nor felt.

Its strands writhe slow, with strange intent,

On crooked paws, dark and bent.

It slinks along with sightless grace,

No eyes or mouth, no form or face—

Just fur that ripples, black and deep,

A crawling nightmare, wide awake from sleep.

It seeks the warmth of living skin,

A place to bind itself within.

It drapes around, a gentle weight,

Then tightens in a soft embrace.

Once it clings, you’ll never know—

Its warmth will seep, its roots will grow.

And in the night, beneath the stars,

Your skin will crawl, but never far.