A poem by Sydney Stone. I do not own the image.
***
The sound of slowly falling drops,
Like the errant hands of clocks,
Marks slow passage of the time,
Starts the tingling up your spine,
Who is that sitting there-
With grotesquely hanging hair?
Crouched in corner, eyes alight,
Staying just beyond the light.
Hard for you to see them clearer,
Look you not into the mirror,
Your mouth hangs open, silent screaming,
As upon you dance small creatures teeming,
You cannot move, cannot speak,
As floorboards nearer to you creak,
Your soul is there for them to take,
Until the blessed moment you awake
Fevered Mind 
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