Doomspell

I'm under fire, 

below cloud negative nine.  

Your doobie-ous smoke  

floods my sinuses  

and my nasal cavities, 

like stomach acid.  

Like silverfish eggs, 

you lay in wait to lay waste  

and burrow schisms  

in exhausted minds.  

Most probable impostor, 

despairingly mine.  

Your thrips infest me—  

a plague of my creation.  

Like prickly slime, 

you've climbed through my ear  

to shuttle down my sore throat.  

As you do, each time, 

you implant like rice  

inside fight or flight's furrows.  

Your maggots plumpen;  

and every grub shall cocoon  

into copies of you, 

all just as toxic.  

In a slouched mosey, 

I'll wander through dazy days, 

no thump in my chest.  

Much like a monarch, 

I can't stand to look at you, 

lest I net my death.  

And like with the man  

who glares in through my window, 

I'll pretend you'd left.