Inside me something dwells that screams in fear
whenever I espy a cratered place.
It can be hard to know when one is near
for tiny ones are the most vile disgrace.
I cannot help imagining the feel
of rubbing those most evil pits and dents.
They dance and flicker like a movie reel
that in my mind true horror represents.
But worst of all, perhaps, is in my skin,
which burns like fire with an itch so deep.
It seems to well up from someplace within –
the sight alone enough to make flesh creep.
But is it terror true beneath the fear
that underlies this grave and gruesome dread?
Or is it just a simple strange idea,
connected by a most surprising thread –
that deep in tunnels monstrous things are bred;
that pockmarks can be seen on one’s deathbed;
that holes are dug for no one but the dead?