creep -

It starts in silence, soft and slow,

a whisper where the dark things grow.

A bloom of rot, a breath too damp,

a creeping stain, a swallowed lamp.

It feeds on air, on time, on bone,

on things once loved, now overgrown.

A sickness slouched in shaded eaves,

a hush that clings, a ghost that breathes.

No teeth, no claws, no need for haste,

just patient hunger, silent waste.

A kingdom built in spores and dust,

in rotted wood, in broken trust.

You scrub, you bleach, you fight, you burn—

but still, it waits. It will return.